


Raw

by Nikoshinigami



Series: Naked, Stripped, and Raw [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Stripped. In the month since Mary's death, very little has changed and still nothing is quite the same. With depression leaving John stuck in a vacancy of emotion, a retreat to Sherlock's new home in Sussex may hold the cure to more than just the grief John cannot feel.</p><p>Edited by <a href="http://renadolce.tumblr.com/">Renadolce</a></p><p>Winner for Best Characterization in the 2014 <a href="http://sherlockbbcficrecs.tumblr.com/post/98736794821/winners-of-the-2014-holmsies-announced">Holmsies Awards</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mary died three weeks after Analise learned to walk. She was often carried despite the milestone. When left unattended she was quick to escape and run between legs, hugging knees, falling over shoes and handbags. She rarely cried, more than content to get back up, fully prepared to tumble forward again in her crimson gown of ruffles and white lace. She had no idea why the house was full of people or why her mother had been absent all week. All she seemed to know was that she was getting a great deal of attention. She liked that. It was a party as far as she was concerned and John was simply glad that no one had the gall to tell a child how to behave at her mother's funeral reception. Most people seemed to pity her enough to find the playfulness endearing. Poor little girl without a mother who would grow up with no memories of her. Analise enjoyed running and the mourners enjoyed their speculations. John didn't care so long as they left by the end of the day. John didn't really care about anything.

It was a constant annoyance to his mother that he didn't even bother to pretend. It took too much energy to look sad. It was too tiring to feign woe. He would have liked grief, truly; would have enjoyed a bit of agony. Instead it was apathy that poisoned him—indifference and uncaring. He made sure Analise was taken care of, his protective instincts undulled by his emotional detachment, but if someone were to ask if he loved his baby girl, he wasn't sure he had the strength to lie and say he did.

The reception itself was a quiet affair with more friends than family. John's mother had taken care of everything and while John wasn't convinced it was entirely what Mary would have wanted, being dead in a box and prepped to burn to ash sort of put a limit on how much that mattered. White lilies in a vase and black bows on the table legs, cold ham and finger foods on trays. Tasteful, traditional. It certainly wasn't an intimate party to celebrate her life but it didn't seem most attendees were all that interested in celebrating anyway. There were small groups of people crying together, a few held in somber conversation, while for the most part John found himself given a wide berth as he sat in his chair and simply waited to be told where to go and what to do. It was a duty his mother was only too happy to take upon herself. 

John was relatively sure she was the reason Sherlock hadn't stayed long. Not that it mattered. He recalled him coming, no words spoken with only a hand on John's shoulder to relay his sentiments. They never really needed words. At some point Analise began crying, not from fall but nappy foul, and Sherlock had taken her to be changed and tidied up with Mrs. Watson on his heels. There must have been words. Sherlock had looked as coldly indifferent as John felt when he returned with his coat and a kiss for John's cheek. John hadn't seen him since and no one else seemed to care or to notice.

And suddenly that was over a month ago—so John was told and the calendar upheld. He didn't really remember the days in between. He was still sat in his chair, still being fed on the casseroles and quiches of well-wishers so that everything tasted of spinach and cheese. He was still numb. His mother cooked and cleaned and looked after Analise while John sat bone-idle with nothing on the telly and indifferent even to every word of every page in every book. Tired was one of the few things he could feel—tired and guilty. He often felt them both at the same time, especially as he watched his daughter play. He did not think it was possible to stop loving one's own child but every day he felt the vacancy of emotion despite her hugs and kisses and cuddles in his chair. His hollowness had taken even that joy from him. The way his mother watched him, John was sure she could tell he no longer carried a single care for the living. " _Analise is lucky to still have you_ ," she'd say as a daily mantra. She was worried he was going to kill himself. That thought was the tears at the cooker and the frowning glances through the mirrors. John didn't have a reply to that. Most of the time, he worried about having a gun in the house too.

Too much time was passing and none of it where John could feel its benefits. It was already the last week of his bereavement leave from the surgery. It was almost time to man up and go back to living as though everything was going to be okay. It wasn't. It couldn't be. Mary died and took with it all the joy in John's life. What a bitch, he wanted to say some days. It wasn't enough that she had to leave him, she had to go and take every bliss and torture with her leaving him with the cold vacancy of a abyssal hell.

The house was too big. He owned too much furniture. What on earth was he supposed to do with her clothes and make-up and jewelry? How much was he supposed to keep and how much was safe to just burn? He felt like he'd done all this before, felt the emptiness and futility and weariness that sapped his strength of will from him. There wasn't an escape this time. Expectations set his path in stone long before he'd ever had to take his first step. He didn't want to. There was something inherently wrong with waking up and going to work and coming home to his mother and seeing to Analise and going to bed to start again. 

This wasn't the life he was supposed to be living. What happened to the old one? He'd liked that one.

Mrs. Watson set down a hot mug of tea on the table beside his chair. Had another day gone? They all looked the same. "More post, dear," she said as she set a small pile of cards and letters down beside. "There's one from your solicitor."

Just what John wanted. He eyed the small stack of thin rectangles and boxy squares. Did he need to sign something new? Read over more documents in legalese and charter his soul away via biro? He'd had rather enough of their paperwork. It could wait. The whole bloody world could wait though it seemed to continue to move on despite him. 

There was the slightest hint of color under the stack of paper-white. John thumbed his way to the item, expecting perhaps some form of advertisement but seeing instead a postcard lost in the middle of pointless condolences and news. No one sent postcards and certainly not from the British coast to a British native. It was a nice enough picture, very stock, but not much of interest outside the general natural appeal of tall waterside cliffs, blue waters, and jutting headlands of grass and wildflowers. There was a certain air of nostalgia about it, though. On the back there was an address but no name—a house called Fair Hill Cottage somewhere down in Brighton. The succinct message scribbled in child-like handwriting read only ' _Come at once if convenient; If inconvenient, come all the same._ ' John could not help the smile that crept upon his face at the familiar beckoning he'd always been hard pressed to ignore.

Mrs. Watson's diminutive sob caught John off guard. "Oh, John... I think that's the first time I've seen you smile in weeks," she said, her lips pursed white against a smile of her own.

He cleared his throat, suddenly very dry of mouth and happy to have the tea at his side. He took a long deep drink, enjoying the scald of his throat as it sank like fire to his belly. The smile wasn't fading. He could feel it burning like the tea through the whole of his body, torches of light in the darkness. He nodded mutely, gathering his own thoughts before rising up out of his chair with a creak. "I have to go."

She hadn't expected that. Mrs. Watson put her hands on the kitchen counter, her face set in confusion and worry. "Go? Go where?"

"Brighton." He flashed the postcard for only a moment before heading towards the stairs to his room above. His mother was following him within seconds.

"Brighton? Why on earth are you going there?"

"Watch Analise for me, will you?"

"John!" Mrs. Watson grabbed his arm, her hands shaking slightly in the tightness of her grip. He looked first at her aged hands on his sleeve then up to her frightened eyes. Too much, too soon. The first flicker of life appearing like the spark before the end. "You're not well, dear," she said, voice hushed though no one was there to hear them. "I think you should stay here with family and friends."

John shook his head, giving her hand a pat as he tried to remove himself from her grasp. "No. No, I can't stay. And I can't take her with me so if you could just watch her for a while that'd be great."

Mrs. Watson eyed him suspiciously for a moment before at last letting go, snatching up instead the postcard in his hand as she retreated from him to read. He pursued no more than three steps before giving up and turning back to his room to pack while she tried to make heads or tails of it. Just a week. If he could just have a week, then maybe.... Anything. Absolutely anything was possible. Just one week.

"John Hamish Watson."

Over forty years and that still put the fear of God in him. John stood straighter, his suitcase on the bed and drawers thrown open as he rushed to pack. His mother stood in the doorway, practically barricading it with her body as she expanded with insistence. 

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked, arms coming to cross against her chest.

John took a deep breath then returned to his packing, tossing in socks and pants by the handful. "I don't know."

"What do you mean 'you don't know'?"

"I _don't know_ ," he repeated, not at all surprised by the lack of comprehension shared as he lacked plenty of his own. "I just—I _have_ to go."

"Because someone told you to on a postcard?"

"More or less."

" _John!_ " she shouted, brows knit in worry. 

John tossed a few pairs of trousers into the dark green suitcase, hangers and all. "I can't explain it, okay?" he said, then tried. "You said so yourself, that's the first time I've smiled in a long time. I need to do this."

"You can't just run off when you feel like it, John. You have a daughter, you have a responsibility to her! You want to be the type of father who just does what he wants, when he wants to, and leaves his child to fend for herself?"

That stung though he kept the wince to little more than a flutter of lashes. He'd been a husband. He'd been a soldier. He was a doctor. He knew all about responsibility, about duty and obligations. He'd never once turned away from the front lines nor failed to serve his patients true. He was never unfaithful to Mary. If anyone thought he'd abandon their daughter, even in light of his lost affection, they surely did not know him. His mother should. His mother did. She was speaking solely from a place of worry and desperation and for that he would have to forgive her. "You know I don't. I'm asking you if you can watch her for me. This is one time, it's not a _thing_ ," he assured her, giving a bit more time to the fold of his jumper before stuffing it in along the rest.

She sniffed back snot from unshed tears. "What about work?" she asked.

"I'll be back for work."

No answer seemed well enough to please her. "John, you're not well," she started again, rubbing her arms anxiously in the doorway as though they were caught in a draft rather than an argument. "What's in Brighton, why won't you tell me where you're going?"

"I'm going to see Sherlock," he said as he added another jumper and plaid shirt to the haphazard stack he'd packed.

Mrs. Watson scowled. "Him again? John, this is ridiculous. Call him and tell him to come _here_ if he wants to see you. What sort of man _summons_ a grieving widower out of his own home for a visit?"

"The Sherlock kind," he answered, much to her dismay. The best kind. He pushed the top down on his case, running the zipper along the sides. Maybe he'd forgotten a few things but it didn't really matter. First train he could catch. Fast as he could. There was nothing he'd need that he couldn't live without for a week. All things included. "Will you please watch Analise for me?" he asked again, lifting the case off the bed. "Please? I promise when I come back I'll be ready to step up and man up but I can't right now. I can't. I'm going whether I have to take her with me or not but I'd rather she be with you."

His mother stood stock-still though her bottom lip gave a tremble. Her dark blue eyes were pinched further along her crow’s feet with the glistening of something wet within as she kept her post at his door. "I'm scared for you, John," she said, voice on the crying side of hoarse as she continued to bar his way.

John let go of the handle on his bag and wrapped his arms around his mother instead, pulling her away from the door with the gentle brushing of her hair. He didn't want her to feel bad. He didn't need the extra guilt. He no more felt a thing for her than he did for his own daughter but neither had he ever been one to permit a woman's tears regardless. He simply didn't know any more words with which to say ' _I have to go_ '. Threats to end his life if forced to stay were far too melodramatic and sensational for his sort of bidding, regardless of the possibility. It wasn't something one said to their mother. Not as a grown man and certainly not when her own fears were already of that vein. For the first time in a long time, John felt a rush of anticipation, though. There was optimism and hope and a giddiness that always followed memories of Sherlock's more memorable hijinks. If Sherlock could bring him those flashes of feeling through a post card, then John _had_ to go. 

"I'm sorry, Mum," he whispered against her greying temple. He gave her back a few short pats to accompany the slight sway of their embrace. "I'm okay. I'm alright. Just watch her for me. Please. You know me. I'm not running way. I won't be long. I just need to get away for a bit."

He could feel the dampness on his shoulder as she sniffed again, rubbing at her eyes as she pulled away. "Do you even know when the train leaves?" she asked.

John shook his head. "No. But I plan to be on the next one."

Mrs. Watson nodded, fixing the collar of John's shirt as she slowly stepped back towards the door. "Just don't get carried away, dear," she said, her eyes and cheeks both red.

John gave her a quick kiss before she left him to finish whatever he had left to do. 

He took the gun from the safe and stowed it safely in the case.

Could be dangerous.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing John noticed were the wildflowers. Violet, red, yellow, white, all spreading out along their beds while crawling, vibrant green leaves saw the red brick house as more a challenge than an obstacle. The summer air was rich with the sweet floral fragrance, the hint of cut grass tempering the bouquet. He looked out over the pebble drive, the white trimmed windows under twin peaks, the trees and bushes in full bloom like a symphony for the eyes. This two story home with its grey roof and ivy beard belonged to Sherlock Holmes. John would never have paired Fair Hill Cottage with its owner. 

He'd had to ask directions at the station and asked for even more as he drew near. The home of the aloof eccentric seemed the prevailing estimation of the man who’d bought the old house near the water’s edge. Seemed about right. It would have been much easier to have phoned and asked Sherlock where his house was but prolonging the sense of anticipation did wonders for John's mood. He didn't feel in the least bit disappointed. Fair Hill Cottage well exceeded his expectations though in truth he hadn't really made any. He knew what they would have been though and the charming place set among a pallet of pastel beauty was not really within Sherlock's taste. Rather, it was more like Sherlock himself. It was both structured and chaotic—weeded and tended to though left to stretch out far from the confines of individual beds. It was literally buzzing with several bees not far from John's legs as he took the pebble path to the door hidden under a drape of green leaves and vines. Outwardly it was an attractive home though perhaps not conventionally so with her patchy beard of green foliage. Sherlock's home was Sherlock in house form. It worried John for just a moment as to what that might mean for what was inside.

Setting his suitcase on the steps, he knocked at the door, looking back out at the front garden he'd passed through to take it in from a new direction. It rewarded him with even more color, a few blue blooms waving in the breeze under the shade of a large green bush. It was the sort of place Mary would have liked, really. Though she hadn't had the strength to travel near the end, it would have perhaps been worth the trouble to have come to visit in the spring. He leant against the brick, eyes closed to the sound of the rustling wind and the smell of salt and flowers. It was another world entirely from the one he'd left. Different from home, from Baker Street—different from London altogether. The sting of unwarranted water in his eyes brought a pang to his chest as he breathed in deep. Allergies, surely. There wasn't enough mirth or sorrow in him to cry. He knocked again, rubbing at his eye till it stung and the unnecessary water wiped away. 

Still no one came to the door. John frowned, sure he'd read the cottage's name on the plaque where the domed hedges grew. Peaking through the glass panes of the door he could see not a soul inside, though. What there was was a thin glimpse of a den with sofa and chair and an even better view of a table set up with the manner of science equipment John was quite familiar with. There were flowers by the microscope—fresh ones by the hue. John left his case on the steps and went back out around the pebbled path towards the side of the house where the trees served as nature's fence to guard the lot behind them. A few low twigs grabbed at John's trousers as he walked through a somewhat worn path where the grass was sparse and yellow from being trodden upon. There were bushes where the trees' branches stooped, sagging with the weight of their bountiful green, cutting off most light until John slipped out on the other side. The side yard was much like the front garden, though a bit more overgrown and mingled. Beyond that, though, was nothing more than a field of flat grass sprinkled in wooden boxes and trees that ran off into the horizon where the hill met the sky. Sherlock sat close to the house, a wide brimmed yellow hat covering his head as he sat on a stool next to a patch of clover with a notebook in hand. John somehow hadn't expected him to outfit himself in pressed khaki trousers and a white button down dress shirt even here, out in the garden. It made the yellow hat look odd though it was the only sensible thing he seemed to be wearing. John was warm enough in his own things without having perched out in the sun.

Sherlock sat up, twisting in his seat to look at John with his pad of paper resting in his lap. "Took you long enough," he said, coming off from his stool to stand.

"I was on the other side of London," John told him with a slight smile in his words.

Sherlock nodded, dusting his hands off on his thighs as he gestured for John to follow. "I'll put the kettle on."

They walked inside over the pebbled patio behind the house, Sherlock tossing his hat on the kitchen’s wooden worktop as he set to washing his hands in the sink. John was quite accustomed to making himself at home and so he did, going first to the front door to collect his things before giving the place a quick once over. It was tidier than he'd thought it might be. The science room was what would have traditionally stood for a dining area, the current home's occupant needing far less space to eat. He didn't recognize much of the furniture, most of it perhaps bought with the cottage though here and there he found traces of Baker Street in a green chair, a beveled mirror, knick-knacks and cushions. It was strange to see pieces of a life he'd once lived now set in an unfamiliar place. He still held to the opinion that the red floral chair now set by the window was his. He left his bag in the open and let himself fall into his familiar seat, the way the cushion conformed to his backside rather comforting in strange, stupid ways.

"I see you found the place alright," Sherlock said from the kitchen, milling about to the tune of closed cabinets and running water.

John sighed in pleasant complacency. "Well enough. Your place is nicer than the postcard photo."

Sherlock chuckled at the compliment. "Good to know I haven't left it to go completely to pot. I'm getting much better at this gardening thing." He stood leaning on the worktop looking at John from the other room as he spoke with the same familiarity as though they'd just spoken to each other the previous day. "There's quite a bit to learn about plants. I try and test the nitrate content of the soil fairly regularly and a generalized soil analysis has seen some overall improvement on the areas most directly in the sun. I've actually increased the bud count in three of the seven test areas. Still working out how soil saturation influences nutrient retention."

The chuckle was almost more of a relief than John could take. It felt _wonderful_ even as it hurt, jostling him unevenly as his muscles seemed to stumble to relearn the motions. He coughed on it, clearing his throat with the last of the cheerful air in him as his smile tweaked his cheeks. "Should have known you'd tackle gardening with more than just a bucket and spade."

"Well, I have those too if it paints a better picture," Sherlock offered, tray set with tea pot and service.

John shook his head, resting heavily in his chair with no immediate plans to move. "Nothing paints it better than you in that funny yellow hat," he said, feeling his smile right down to his toes.

Sherlock brought the cup and saucer to him before sitting in his own green chair on the opposite side of the room where the sunlight did not spread. John could feel the sun on his own hands and face, warm and yellow like butter on toast. He drank his tea, listening to the buzz of bees at the windowsill, and sat in comfortable silence in the moments Sherlock left open, not pregnant with questions but simply vacant and unspeculative. For once John did not feel judged as either a bad husband, a bad father or simply a bad human being for not being able to shake himself loose from whatever kept him captive. The only sound Sherlock made was in the clink of his own cup against the saucer. John hadn't felt more at home in weeks. "So," he said at the start of a breathy sigh. "Aloof eccentric, is it?"

Sherlock shrugged, not looking the least bit displeased with himself. "I had quite a few visitors my first few weeks in. Didn't take long. They certainly could call me worse. This is my second season in, though, and I suppose in part to that they've erred on the side of kindness."

John chuckled again, almost unable to picture Sherlock at the center of a community of house-warmers and neighbors without a harpoon entering into things, though that might have come from the fact that said harpoon was mounted on the wall behind the sofa. "The plants and all that keep you from getting too bored, do they?" he asked, still somewhat shocked to see his friend in so calm a state with so little to do. In London he'd be going positively mad, lost to pacing in a fit along the rug.

"I've set an end goal for producing a superior product from my apiaries which requires superior native floral species which must be maintained by superior soil. It is very much a ground up operation." Sherlock set his empty cup down on the coffee table, legs crossed at the knee as he sat with fingers steepled at his chin. "Can't really say I have time to be bored. There's testing, there's weeding, watering, pruning, feeding, re-potting and relocating. I think I'm making fairly good progress this season. It's annoying to have to wait to gauge success but nature is quick to point out failures. It will probably not be until next spring that I get any true results from my more extensive work this year. The honey is certainly testing as the same though I would like to say it already tastes better."

John nodded slowly to show he was listening. It actually was somewhat interesting to listen to Sherlock talk about his plans for his garden. He wouldn't call it an impassioned speech but Sherlock spoke with some manner of interest. Bees and flowers were certainly no triple homicide but unlike the case of the bleeding corpses of three unlucky souls, the garden lasted far longer than a few hours or days. Sherlock had always been manic, waiting for the next thrill, the next high to chase and relish in before the inevitable plummet in the wake of success without immediate repetition. It made sense in a way that the calm John had noted existed now where there were no extreme highs or extreme lows. Sherlock seemed to have a full schedule between analyses and garden maintenance. Like the house, it wasn't at all what John would have picked for him but Sherlock seemed healthier for it in more than just his change of pallor.

"Well, you always did have a taste for sweet things," John remarked in the end as he finished his own still warm cup of milky tea. 

Sherlock smiled, a pale blush ripening the apples of his already sun-kissed cheeks. "That is assuredly one habit I have not cut back on."

John hummed with amusement, letting his eyes fall closed again. He heard Sherlock refill his cup then carry the service back to the kitchen. He wasn't quiet on John's behalf. John rather appreciated that.

"How much longer is your mother going to be staying with you?" Sherlock asked from the other room.

John peeped one eye open. "Who says she is?"

"Your clothes. Your mother favors lavender fabric softener. You never bother when you do your own laundry."

Oh, how John loved and hated when he did that. He chuckled to himself darkly, shaking his head. "I have no idea. I don't really remember her asking to stay. She just.. never left. Takes care of Analise, though."

"And you."

"And me." John sighed, looking up at the wood beams in the ceiling painted dark brown against the white. "Is that why you sent your invitation?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, putting the odds and ends away. "I happened to purchase a rather excellent vintage of wine, actually. I thought it would be a shame to drink it alone, especially seeing as you like Malbec."

"You demanded my presence via post to assist in the drinking of wine?"

"There was no rush," Sherlock said with a slight smile to betray the pleasure at his own whit. "If anything can wait, it's wine. I'm led to believe it actually gets better with age."

"Unlike us," John teased, the wetness returning to his eyes which he quickly rubbed away. It hurt like living to be in the same room as Sherlock once more. It was the best kind of hurt.

Sherlock did not bother to retort, a slight roll of his eyes his only reply as he walked to John's case and picked it up. "First door on the right's the bathroom. First door facing the stair is yours," he said.

John nodded and watched from his chair as Sherlock carried his things up for him, at some point having lost his shoes as he stepped barefoot out of sight. John smirked and settled deeper, his smile fading fast in the absence of further anticipation as he looked at his refilled cup with disinterest. A different den, a different chair, but still John found himself drawn to stagnation. 

But he'd smiled. 

He'd even laughed. 

The emptiness was surely still there but it did not seem quite as expansive when sitting in the sunlight of Sherlock's far-away home that smelled like flowers and sounded like a breeze.

Mary would have liked it here. She really would have found it cute. He'd have to tell her about it later but for now nothing sounded quite as good as a nap.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock made dinner. It wasn't entirely unheard of but John still took it as an opportunity to tease him. As bachelors it had been takeaways and dining out with a few ready meals in the freezer for when the weather was dreadful or the motivation to deal with other human beings was at its lowest point. The kitchen being home to all manner of experiments, there were a few choice occasions John could easily remind him of when even prepackaged meals merely heated in the oven carried a risk of bio-hazard exposure. The most complex things either of them ever really made at home were sandwiches and the occasional breakfast of beans, eggs and toast. The kitchen had never been fit for much else. Now, as a point of contrast, it was.

John wasn't sure he liked it, really. He was quite alright with staying in, had no real fears concerning Sherlock's ability to boil water for pasta and heat tomato sauce in a pan. But Sherlock didn't cook. Sherlock didn't garden either or live outside of London. He wasn't sure if he felt more like he was being lied to or invited to believe the lie Sherlock told himself. The Sherlock in John's head, the one that populated his memories and gave him insight when considering the taller man, had been an unchanging thing since nearly the day they'd met. He'd changed some but they'd changed together. Now Sherlock was playing house out in the country, doing what country people did rather than what John knew Sherlocks did. Sherlocks used spades to dig up evidence and a knowledge of soil and foliage for locational reference. Sherlocks used ovens to temper glassware and kept body parts in the microwave and fridge. Sherlocks were moody and often miserable and most importantly Sherlocks needed Johns. John got the sense that Sherlock really didn't need anyone anymore—least of all him. He'd already lost one best friend. He really didn't need to find he'd become redundant for another.

Standing at the cooker, white sleeves pushed up over his tanned forearms, Sherlock added another shake of garlic to the pre-made tomato sauce, tasting it off the spoon before getting another sample and extending it to John. "Fix it," he said, eyes on the spice rack rather than on John as he spied the options available.

John straightened in mild surprise and walked closer to take the spoon from him. He sipped on it, careful of the heated metal and the still hot liquid as he frowned, lips puckered in thought. "S'a bit sweet, yeah. Pepper, maybe?"

Sherlock put his hand against the back of his neck as he considered, nodding with John's first assessment. "What's oregano? People are always putting oregano in their Italian."

"Just a herb. I don't know." John handed back the spoon, leaning hard over the counter to watch as the man flicked his long fingers over rarely used containers. John'd never put much thought into 'fixing' bottled sauce. One generally got what they paid for. He'd certainly never been put off enough not to still clean his plate with bread. "Probably just fine once you get a bit of parmesan over it. I'm not really that picky."

Sherlock sniffed at the contents of the oregano bottle with an immediate scowl of disgust before dumping in a pinch. "Some of us have a more refined pallet," he remarked, sifting through the spices again for whatever he seemed to deem appropriate.

John scoffed at that. "Says the man who sometimes made a day's meal out of a packet of crisps."

"I said refined, not expensive."

And there, at least, was the Sherlock John knew. Not that everything else was so different as to be someone else entirely but Sherlock meant certain things to John and had meant them for many years. Sherlock wasn't supposed to change. John needed him not to have changed for reasons more selfish than he cared to admit. Still, he laughed at that and left Sherlock to his concoction as he set out plates and cutlery instead against the island counter. So long as they could both pretend to be people they used to be, perhaps things were okay. 

In the end Sherlock popped open the bottle of wine and poured a few spoonfuls into the pan before pouring a glass for them each. John took the offered spoon once more and hummed his final verdict, thumbs up as he reached to take his glass and get out of the way once more. Sherlock was certainly never going to appear on Master Chef but as far as sprucing up a generic sauce went, the chemist had a certain flare. His choice in wine wasn't half bad either and he could use a drink or two.

The table on the pebbled back patio was the only one with guest seating. They took their plates, the wine, and a full roll of kitchen paper outside and sat out in the full light of the evening. Sunset wasn't for hours still. John couldn't think of a better seat in the house. It was windy but not too much so with the line of trees shading the edges of Sherlock's property waving with the greater weight of the breeze. John ate slowly, drinking even slower, as he allowed himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of a meal shared. He clinked his glass to the side of his friend's, no real toast to proclaim but one honored in the heart all the same.

"Have I said thank you yet?" he asked, opening his mouth wide for the fork and tortellini.

Sherlock shook his head, sipping his wine while his cheese melted into the crevices of the pasta. "I don't believe so and neither should you."

"Not even for cooking me dinner?"

"I heated dinner," Sherlock corrected, a stickler for details even with the chance for praise. He tucked in to his own portion, eyes down and fork set to stab with the slight embarrassment of being called out on being a decent host. That generally meant he was actually trying. It was nice to get the read on Sherlock once in a while. "I was going to make this tonight anyway," he said to divert from his intention.

John chuckled at the defensive tone. Only Sherlock. "You're amazing, you know that?"

"Yes."

"Guess you don't need me to tell you how."

"No," the chemist agreed. "But in general I do like to hear it anyway."

John's smile grew, a bit of the tightness in his chest easing with every hint that things were still as they always had been. "Never change, Sherlock. I want you always to be my pompous git."

"Such high standards," Sherlock joked, looking out towards the horizon where not a hint of twilight threatened. "And I suppose that means you'll also continue to be my argumentative arse?"

John gave a breathy laugh and Sherlock's shoulder a pat before resigning himself to the small smile that only took a moment to fade. His mind seemed set to sabotage every happiness he could grasp. Sherlock was doing very well without John, didn't need John, was better off without John there. Gardeners don't need sidekicks. Beekeepers don't have adventures. All Sherlock could offer him was dinner and wine and all John could repay with was the attempt to sulk quietly. What a waste of time this was. What a lie. John breathed deep, eyes shut, forcing back the thoughts that all sounded very true but spoke only of more things that he did not need to idle in for his extended sanity.

He'd been a lousy husband, he was an abysmal father, why should he have expected his friendship to have been something that lasted in its perfect state of memory? And, God, he was doing it again, wasn't he? He just wanted to enjoy this—being with Sherlock. Did he really need to try and ruin it for himself?

It didn't take any thought at all to assume Sherlock was watching him. Sherlock always stole glances when he felt free to do so. John could actually feel the question being formulated long before he heard it. 

"How are you, John?" he asked, the tink of his fork against his plate doing little to add a casual tone to the rather heavy question.

John smirked, drinking deep from his glass. "Do you need to ask?"

"No." Sherlock put his elbows on the table, hands clasped below his chin. "Are you seeing anyone about it?"

"No, god no. I don't even leave my chair let alone my house." John shook his head, scratching at the skin behind his ear as his arms crossed in front of him. "There's honestly nothing they can tell me I haven't already heard. I mean, Jesus, I went to one when _you_ 'died'. All they want to tell me is that it's okay to be angry, it's okay to feel sad, it's perfectly normal to feel betrayed and scared and they sure as hell don't know the cure for when your mind can't decide on what it's going to feel and so it defaults to absolutely _nothing_." He pursed his lips on the words, the first he'd spoken on the subject to anyone and the flavor of the facts far from pleasing. He drank more wine to re-flavor the bitterness the way Sherlock had improved on the sauce. "I've been through this all before," he said with a wince. "You'd think I'd be better at it. But I'm not. If anything I'm worse. I try thinking about the future and letting go of the past and I just keep thinking of Analise and how fucked she is to have a father like me right now and that maybe it'd be better if someone else had her. Not just for now but.... for good. For _her_ good. And what I hate the most is that most of the time I don't really think I'd even miss her. What the hell kind of father am I, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes silver in the sunlight as they stared unflinching into his. "John, you're not even really _John_ right now. Leave the other titles for later."

"I can't. I don't have the luxury of being just myself. I'm her father first. That's the way it works."

"That's the way it works for idiots."

John laughed at that, shaking his head with the sardonic grin. "Look, you don't have kids. I don't expect you to understand."

"I _was_ a kid," Sherlock stated forcefully, his brows falling lower with annoyance. He was never one to have his opinions discounted. "In fact I was the child of very stupid parents who thought it was best to stay together for the children. Living with their disdain for each other was hardly conducive of a loving household. It's not selfish to do what's best for yourself. It's selfish to think you can martyr yourself for your own cause to the betterment of others."

John bit the inside of his cheeks at that, schooling his expression from surprise to thoughtful. That was certainly not the general opinion he'd been fed upon. Parents were supposed to sacrifice everything for their children, their own happiness included. ' _Think of Analise_ ' were words he’d heard over and over again when confronted with his own depression. He was supposed to get better for her. He was supposed to _be_ better because of her. That was his failing—a lack of any emotion only serving to testify to the many reasons he was not suited to the task. 

"That's not what my mother says," John said, her words always ringing through the loudest as one generation passing on survival instinct to the next.

"Your mother also calls me a vulture but you seem to have the ability to make up your own mind on that as well."

John started, his jaw falling momentarily slack as his eyes blinked wide. "Did she really? At the funeral?"

Sherlock nodded, another bite of tortellini sinking behind his teeth. "Apparently I was there to take advantage of your grief and it was beyond unacceptable for me to wipe your daughter's soiled genitalia clean with a baby wipe."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." John felt his face go red, his hand rising to cover his mouth which was left open in an 'o'. He'd expected something had been said but never in a million years had he imagined his mother would all but denounce his best friend as a pedophile. Oh, there were going to be words. Several words. "I am so sorry."

"Don't be. I've worked with enough death to know the basics on over protective mothers and mourners," Sherlock said, having certainly had enough time to consider cause over translation.

Sherlock's forgiveness was not going to get John's mother off the hook as far as he was concerned, though. Mary would have been outraged. "My mother, I swear... She means well, but for _fuck’s_ sake. I don’t… I wish we were all as good at accepting Mary's death as Mary was. I mean, God, she used to joke about it after it was... you know, after they said that was it. I mean, I thought your humor was black but _Christ_."

"I do recall a few examples from Christmas."

"Oh, god, that's right. You were there."

Sherlock nodded sagely, his glass against his lips. "The mistletoe," he said.

"The mistletoe." John could not help but smirk, images of the night sure to be ingrained in his memory for many years. "I'm telling you, she had a thing for you."

"She had a thing for me in those jeans," he corrected.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't wear those jeans around my wife," John said on instinct, a moment passing before he heard his mistake and sank back in his chair quietly. He felt surprisingly sober for all the talking he'd done. The half glass of wine still waiting by his plate was willing to attest to that. "You know what I mean," he said at last, clearing his throat of the awkward weight that seemed to close it shut. "Anyway, yeah... she was... she made it look easy. Saying goodbye. I really wish it was that easy."

Sherlock nodded, the smile of memories sinking back to the stoic blank of compassion. "There's no statute of limitations on love or loss. It takes exactly as much time as necessary."

"I guess you'd know," John said, and for all the selfishness that begged Sherlock to still love him, he did not feel the least bit guilty for his remark. Some things needed to stay the same. Some truths needed to never change. 

Some regrets needed to be ignored. 

"Is it too late to show me the bees?" 

Sherlock's silent stupor broke with confusion, his gaze shifting from John to the wooden boxes in his garden. He sat up. "Ah... No, not really. The amount of preparation involved, though, might be best to simply wait till tomorrow."

"Alright. Tomorrow sounds good. I can wait to get stung till tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded slowly and corked the wine.

+++

John wasn't drunk but he felt he may as well have been. He carried the same sense of prevailing stupidity in his veins, an abundance of shame at his own mouth in every step he took up the stairs to his room. He was a terrible guest. It really was no surprise at all that Sherlock had gone far away to Sussex to start a new life away from and not including John. The last two years had been a tie between exasperating and pleasant with neither really enough to cancel out the other. They'd always agreed it was John's doing. Fitting, he supposed, he should continue to pay for it now.

There were several doors at the top of the stairs and for the life of him John could not remember which one Sherlock had said was his. He tried the door second on the row that faced the stairs, sure he'd heard something to that nature, and flicked on the light as he entered. It certainly wasn't the room he was looking for. There was no bed but instead several boxes still waiting to be unpacked along with a large wardrobe John had never seen before and again must have come from the seller. Under the window, though, was a folded up yellow play pen, its animal mobile still attached to one of the legs and arching stationary over the collapsed and stored furniture.

He'd brought it with him.

John leaned on the door-frame, letting out a ragged sigh. Maybe there was still a place reserved for him in this new life of Sherlock Holmes'.


	4. Chapter 4

John got to be in charge of the smoker and of lighting the hessian cloth. It certainly wasn't an enticing odor but still somehow the least of his complaints. Sherlock only owned the one white beekeepers suit and it was far too big for John even with the sleeves and legs rolled up. The crotch of it felt uncomfortable rubbing between his thighs and though Sherlock assured him the huge hood of thin mesh cloth on his head was one size fits all, he still felt more than slightly dwarfed by it. Somehow he expected beekeeping to not be anything like they made it look in the movies or on the telly. It was rather disappointing that it was. He looked like a whitewashed haz-mat cleaner coming in on his day off just for fun. He looked cartoonish and he felt ridiculous. Sherlock's own attire did not work to remedy it.

His own suit otherwise occupied, Sherlock wore only a pair of jeans, button down, and John's borrowed shooting jacket. Though he professed to being quite protected by a superior knowledge of bees, all John really cared about was that Sherlock looked cool and John looked like a tit. It was like going to the pool with a seasoned swimmer who insisted on floaties and a big rubber tube with a duck's head around the waist for everyone else. If not for Sherlock's finishing touch, John might have found it a bit too embarrassing to leave the house entirely. But on his head Sherlock wore his yellow hat and over that a white lace drape from one of the upstairs windows that fell like a veil around him with guipures of grapes, leaves and curling vines. He looked like summer's militaristic bride and John had no qualms at all stepping out in such company.

He kept the smoke coming as Sherlock insisted, particularly keen to keep Sherlock's bare hands scented in the pungent cloud as he gently prized up a wooden slat from a base box set near the trees of his garden. It was everything John had expected it to be, which in itself was still everything he had not. He recognized the shape and color of the honeycomb, the sheer amount of bees clinging to it in a living sheet of vibrating gold and black nothing he hadn't witnessed in some program or another. The squared off vision of his hood only added to the sense of unreal reality. He was half expecting to hear David Attenborough’s narration instead of Sherlock’s familiar voice.

"See that?" Sherlock asked, pointing vaguely to the bee cluster on the board. "They're actually eating the honey right now in preparation for abandoning the hive."

John cocked his head slightly, the motion completely lost in his costume. "Why are they going to abandon it?"

"Because of the fire." Sherlock gave the arm with which John held the smoker a quick tap. "Where there's smoke," he said, leaving off the well-known end of the phrase. "That's why the smoke makes them less defensive. We're a much smaller threat to them than a fire is. Smart as they are, they still haven't managed to overcome their baser survival instincts. Generation after generation they still fall for the smoke trick."

"Lucky for you." John aimed the smoke at the block again, finding it hard to tell the difference between an angry bee and a hungry one.

Sherlock nodded, his lace veil obscuring most of his face as he inspected the sample he'd pulled. "No Queen on this one."

"Is that good?"

"Well, not if I want to show you one." He thrust it close to John's face all the same. "There are some eggs, though. And various stages of larva. Do you want to know how to tell nectar from pollen?" he asked, bees walking over his bare fingers with neither the man nor the insect demonstrating a single care for it.

John honestly wasn't all that interested in bees now that he was in the thick of it. But he nodded, smoker ready, and resigned himself to the topic anyway. It was better than sitting in his chair either way. Maybe he'd even pick up a few ideas for why people always spoke on things of birds and of bees.

It didn't take too terribly long for Sherlock to run out of things to point out and describe. Over the course of the lecture John managed not to get stung though his suit apparently had. He'd wondered for a brief moment what his suit had done to offend the bees but, on further thought, the suit rather offended _John_ and so it was very hard to blame them. He was never happier than when they got back to the house and he was allowed to toss the lot of it in the washroom and change into something less clownish and white. Sherlock had toast and tea waiting on the back patio table when he came back down, a mason jar of honey sitting as a centerpiece with a small spoon stuck in to serve. At least John assumed it was honey. It was a few shades darker than puss yellow in color and its thick, grainy consistency didn't do much for its appeal. There was jam and butter as well but John knew he was expected to try the honey first. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to ruin his appetite straight off. He bought time with tea, eying the honey jar over the rim as he enjoyed the morning air.

Sherlock spooned and spread honey on his own slice of toast. Even then, it lacked the glossy shine John knew honey was supposed to have. "It's raw," Sherlock said, taking a crusty bite of toast. "It has pollen, enzymes, propolis, vitamins, amino acids, antioxidants, and minerals. It's supposed to help with allergies by allowing one to ingest small amounts of pollen to build an immunity. So they say."

John licked his lips, picking up the spoon from the jar to investigate the texture. It certainly smelled like honey. 

"I have some which I've pasteurized if you prefer. Tastes the same but the process removes the health benefits. It seemed you might better from the pollen content. You rub your eyes quite a bit."

John hadn't the will to tell him he wasn't rubbing out discomfort. He spread a small sample of the honey on some toast—trying not to think of puss—and took a tentative bite. Surprisingly, it tasted of honey. He didn't even really mind the texture as it warmed on the toast and turned runny. "It's... good. Tastes normal."

Sherlock frowned slightly at that. "Well, it's a first attempt," he said in unnecessary defense. "In a couple years I should be able to improve upon it."

John chuckled, finishing his toast with a few large bites. He didn't suppose he'd ever get used to the idea of Sherlock producing foodstuffs out of his backyard. It was something of a dream and a nightmare combined. Sherlock always managed to succeed in everything he attempted and of course, even uprooted in the country, the ever adaptable Sherlock Holmes was thriving. Good for him, he continued to try to think. It was harder and harder to be pleased for him when the facts put them so far away. Even the taint of his bitterness could not diminish his pride or envy, though. "You know, you're something else, Sherlock. I can't imagine what made you think to pursue all this but just look at you. It's really something. I mean that. I mean, I wish I had that. The ability to just say ' _Fuck it, I'm going to do something new_ ' and then actually do it." John sipped his tea, the mild flavor helping to wash away the sweetness of honey still lingering on his tongue.

"You could."

It was worth the laugh. John shook his head, his smile far from cheerful but not willing to scowl in the face of Sherlock's better attempts at optimism. "I have a house, a mortgage, a great job that pays the bills and a daughter who needs a lot more stability than daddy off on a whim. I can't take those kinds of risks. It affects a lot more than just myself if I fail." 

Sherlock did not seem daunted in the least, crunching through another slice of toast. "Then don't fail," he said with no sense of sarcasm and crumbs along his bottom lip.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's really that easy for you, Mr. I-created-my-first-job. For the rest of us mere mortals, it's not. We don't have big bank accounts to bail us out if it all comes crashing down around us." His bitterness was showing. John swallowed it with his tea, not wanting to wear out his welcome before he was ready to say goodbye. He tried to think of the yellow play pen in the second guest room and of the unspoken promise he applied to it as a symbol. Sherlock's success was a good thing for them both even if it did mean visits few and far between.

Sherlock didn't seem concerned. He sat back in his chair with the sun sweeping the roof's shadow over his lap. "What is the worst that could happen?"

"Are you serious? Well, we can start with jobless, homeless and starving and then multiply that by the weight of having brought it on myself _and_ Analise."

"You’re ignoring the fact that I wouldn't allow for it, but so be it. And if you stayed exactly as you are?"

John shrugged. There was nothing he could think of that could go wrong if he stayed with his current life and lifestyle. Boredom almost certainly but nothing more pressing than that unless he listened to the hollowness that liked to remind him of the Browning usually stored in his safe. He didn't really care to think what it said about his mental state if some days the only reason he didn't act on the impulse was because it seemed like far too much effort. 

Sherlock stacked their dishes on the tea tray, tipping crumbs into the wind. "What do you want, then?" he asked. "What would make you happy? Forgetting about Analise for now."

"I can't. I'm telling you, it doesn't work like that." John wasn't sure in what way he wasn't making that fact clear. Perhaps Sherlock felt he'd won the argument before but there really was no assurance he could give him that stood strong against the feeling of wrongness at the idea. Whether he loved her or not, Analise came first. It was just the way parenthood worked. He ran a hand through his hair, the back of his head warm under the sun. "I mean, Mary and I talked about what I should do after she died. There was some talk about moving closer to work, maybe even Baker Street. Maybe get back in touch with The Strand and see about writing full time. Everything we talked about revolved around me being closer to or having more time for Analise. Literally _everything_ has been built around what’s best for her and easiest for me."

"And yet you want out."

It should have been a question and John nearly hated him for it not being one. "I don't know what I want," he said through his teeth, growing more and more tired with his insistence.

Sherlock nodded, standing with the tray balanced between his hands. "Analise isn't what's holding you back, John," he said, leaving it as his final word on the topic as he turned to go back inside.

"I never said I blamed her," John retorted, though he could not escape the thought of how quickly he might have asked to stay if it wasn't somehow for her.

+++

Most of what Sherlock had in stock in his kitchen was portioned for one so they went for a long, meandering walk with the town as their ideal destination. John was very much assured they hadn't taken the direct roads. They hadn't taken any roads at all, in fact. Instead Sherlock lead John over moor and headland in view of the great white cliff faces which boasted liberal dustings of wildflowers and overgrown grasses. Were he a younger man he would have enjoyed the slight thrill of running against the wind, eyes shut with the summer sun daring him to go faster. He'd used to run until he'd choked some times, so empty of air but full of everything else that linked to life that he hadn't the sense to jog when running was still an option. His father's always said he'd be a soldier. They were the only kind of men in the world who hadn't the sense to stop if it hurt, pushing forward till their bodies forced them to quit. John liked to think himself as more sensible than that, though he wouldn't have minded a little more of that indomitable spirit.

There wasn't much in the way of birdsong but the crash of waves kept the world from going quiet. Their feet against the earth cracked and thundered, shins parting the grass, the wind blowing by in an unsteady roar to cool the burn of the sun on their backs. John could not help the deep breath and sigh as he took longer steps to catch up with Sherlock's pace. It was far from the excitement he used to expect from walking in his friend's shadow but there was still a comfort to his presence that made John glad he’d come. It was going to be hard to leave, really. Sherlock lived entirely too far away and their luck, time and time again, seemed to pit what was best for one of them against the needs of the other. It was John's turn now to be lonely and dissatisfied. Part of him felt it only fair. 

It wasn't long before Sherlock's trailless path lead them closer to the mainland borders, nothing but the horizon and the Channel in front of them and Sherlock ignoring all chance to turn around. "Now I know I'm not from around here but I'm pretty sure this isn't the way into town," John said, his breath heavy in his chest from the excursion thus far. "

Sherlock offered him a tight smile that failed to light his eyes. "Don't worry, we won't be here long."

"No?"

"No, you're going to jump off." He pointed out towards the edge of the headland that opened into sky. "Straight ahead, fast run, good jump, legs together, feet pointed," Sherlock instructed as though giving directions into the town they were obviously nowhere near.

John chuckled with nervousness, shaking his head. "You're insane."

"You don't trust me?"

"It's not a matter of _trust_ ," he said. John wasn't all that amused by Sherlock's little joke. He raised his brows at him, challenging his sincerity, and moved to step closer to the edge to see just how high up they were and how truly crazy Sherlock's suggestion was. Sherlock grabbed his arm to stay him, though. John looked down at his hand around his arm then back up to his silver eyes. "What?"

"You don't get to look. Just jump," he said. Face calm but eyes burning, he really was genuinely telling him to do it.

Sherlock had always been a little on the side of crazy but this truly took the cake. If Sherlock thought for one second that John was going to jump off a cliff just because he told him to, he was far too impressed with himself to remember the facts of reality. The absurdity of it almost made it funny despite his seriousness and for that John continued to smile and laugh it off. "I think you've been stung by one too many bees, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood still and staring. "And you've been listening to far too many idiots spouting generic nonsense. Work the safe job, keep the same routine, do everything for your daughter, be the nine-to-five drone whose only pleasure in life is the solitary accomplishment of raising a child?" He let go of John's arm, circling in front of him instead with no care to personal space and no plans to include them. "You fought in Afghanistan," he recounted. "You chased criminals, were kidnapped, saw the deepest depths of hell that London can offer. You didn't get married and start a family because you wanted stability, you did it because it was something new, something different, something exciting that could be pursued and won. The more people try to help you the worse it is because they're stealing your struggle, robbing you of the fight, handing down to you false wisdom that tells you to forget everything that has made you who you are and to become more like them. _They_ are the ones who want to go to sleep every night knowing nothing surprising can possibly happen tomorrow. That is _their_ safety net and you have it wrapped around your neck like a noose. You don't need endless stability, you need the thrill of never knowing. And you won't know what's at the end of that cliff if you don't jump."

It wasn't funny anymore. If there was one thing Sherlock's eyes and words and presence were not it was humorous in the least. John shook his head, arms up between them as though Sherlock might simply toss him over if he persisted in his refusal. "I'm not jumping. I'm not jumping! Are you completely out of your mind?!"

Probably. Sherlock moved around him, coming up from behind and leaning in towards his ear, never touching, John's eyes following him though his body seemed rooted to the spot.

"There's nothing quite like it. Standing on the edge, looking down, knowing the only reason your life is on the line is because you make that step that takes you over. Millions of years of evolution and we still fear the fall. Your life in your hands, everything in you _screaming_ not to do it, survival instincts kicking into high gear and then the sink of your gut when it's too late, it's over, it's out of your hands and there is nothing left but trust and hope as you plummet."

John could feel his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing at the thought of the feelings and fears Sherlock described. He knew them. At different times he'd felt them whether in the trenches or on the pavement, pushing past that last resistance of safety, the cold dread of repercussion, the echo of excitement that made it worth it long before the true success of the cause. He swallowed thickly. No, he was not considering it. It was completely out of the question. It wasn't even worth entertaining in memory though he could not help the compression on his chest of a longing to feel that fear and excitement again. "I can't.. If anything happened—"

Sherlock shook his head, orbiting him again as he moved to the side. "If anything happened, she'd be taken care of. This isn't about her."

"I'm not doing it. I'm not doing it, Sherlock."

"Give me your shoes."

John rubbed his face, trying to look away from the grass and the sky and the unknown beyond it. He used the toes of his feet to peel the heel of his shoes off his foot, kicking them aside with socks to follow. It wasn't the same as saying 'yes' but his body was gripped by it just the same. Endorphins surging, senses heightened, pulse louder than the wind in his ears as it whipped across them both. "This is suicide," he said.

Sherlock followed the flight of his shoes with his eyes. "Only because there are no witnesses," he agreed.

John had to laugh at that. If he didn't, his whole body might explode. Most of the cliffs he'd seen dropped into shoreline; he was trusting completely that Sherlock would not dare him to jump to his death. He didn't feel as assured of that as he would have liked. Looking down, knowing for sure, would have made it so much easier. But he didn't want to anymore. He didn't want to _know_ everything was going to be okay. In some ways it would be okay if it wasn't. 

He was really considering it. He was actually considering jumping out over the edge. He laughed at himself for how stupid he must be. He hid his eyes as he cried for himself and how much he shouldn't want the excitement that gave him this thrill. He wanted this; he needed this. No one could take the steps towards the edge but himself, nothing but his own mind and body in unison working to throw himself to certain death or an icy swim. What man on earth with an ounce of sense would blindly follow such an idiotic suggestion?

A man who had lost something more precious than the love of another: the love of himself.

"Straight ahead, fast run, good jump, feet together, toes pointed," Sherlock repeated, stepping back to give him room.

John opened his mouth to say something, maybe one last attempt to talk himself out of it or ask Sherlock if he was completely sure this was a good idea. Instead he ran, heart saying 'fuck it', and chased towards something new. He sped up before the earth ended and found the open air so much sooner than expected. He didn't look down until he'd already jumped. Sherlock was a bastard. There was water there and plenty of it, only it appeared to be fifty feet below. John's stomach fell faster than he did, his mind already chastising him for a phenomenally stupid death as he flailed with no real purpose on a descent he could not stop. But he did not regret it. The wind was outrageously loud and he cut through it like a spoon, hardly built for the task but managing anyway. He'd always heard that those who fell to their deaths often died of heart attacks before they hit the ground. He could believe that. John's chest positively ached for all the thundering inside him, his ribs surely bruised by the strength of the pulsing muscle. Seconds left and then he'd know whether it was the heart or the waves that killed a man or if in the end he could overcome them all. 

Life wasn't precious because it could be lost; life was precious because only while living could a man fight for the right to be miserable amidst the struggle for happiness.

John struck the water with his feet together, toes pointed, and sliced through like a bullet, falling still even without the air. There was no time for elation or relief. The chill was a punch in the gut all its own while the surface seemed to have become impossibly far above him. John kicked his feet, clawing his way up, chest burning in a new way as the breath he hadn't taken left him empty and with want. If he survived the fall, he sure as hell was not going to fail at the climb. His clothes weighed him down but he kicked harder, no excuses tolerated, as he fought his way back up.

His first breath was equal parts air and water, a heavy cough causing him to spit back up most of it while he tread against the waves, keeping above the crests, to breathe in till his lunges were full. The pain of it felt amazing even as he continued to cough and choke. He looked up to where he'd jumped from and could not for the life of him imagine ever thinking he could survive such a fall. But he had. And it was amazing. And somewhere between the earth and the shore his hollowness had abandoned him. There was simply far too much still for him to seek out and experience to allow himself to remain shielded in a safe bubble of nothingness that comforted the living but not the truly alive.

"Sherlock!" he called up, not quite sure he could be heard but positive he did not see his head of black curls peeking over the edge at him. That had been amazing, surely Sherlock would have watched. One didn't talk a man into a leap of faith just to turn and walk away.

There was a small splash beside John, the water slapping against the back of the head out of tune with the roll of the waves. He spun around, seeing Sherlock wet in the water behind him, lips tinted by the cold but no less pulled into a smile. "You really think I'd choose to stop following you now?" he asked.

John could have kissed him. He let his head roll back with a laugh, looking up at the clouds and the sun all shifting against the blue canvas of the sky. His body hurt from the tension of fear and the breaking of the cold water. More than that, it hurt with the weight of mourning finally allowed to settle on his heart and be felt and experienced and understood. John didn't mind the tears on his face when there was already so much water in the world.

"I miss her so much I can't breathe sometimes."

Sherlock nodded, treading water at his side.

John smirked at the way his chattering teeth made the words sound tentative in the air. He didn't feel that way in the least. "I'm alright being sad. I can handle the hurt. I'm not even afraid to be alone, I just don't want to be. And now you're way out here and _god_ , Sherlock, I can't look at you out here and ask you to come back."

"Then stay." 

Quit the job, sell the house, settle the mortgage, chase something new. John let his doubts wash over him in a laugh, replacing the fear with anticipation and a sense of invincibility. He'd just jumped off a cliff. If life thought it could top that with the technicalities of a mundane life, it had another thing coming. John looked over at Sherlock, smiling with full knowledge that he had never met a greater man. "Okay," he said and watched as Sherlock smiled. It was going to confuse and worry a lot of people when John returned to throw everything but himself and his daughter away. But that was okay. They would get over it. Eventually, everyone did.

He looked up at the cliff some more, frowning as another thought occurred to him. "Our shoes are still up there, aren't they," he said.

"Yes."

"I thought so. And the shore?"

"Further than either of us wants to swim."

John sighed, his body protesting to the cold. " _Brilliant,_ " he groaned, wondering exactly how the rest of Sherlock's plan was supposed to work out.

Sherlock offered him a smirk as he began to swim ahead. "Which is why there's a path carved out."

"Oh. Nice." And really quite handy. John took to splashing his way back to Sherlock's side, making up for Sherlock's longer strokes with the forcefulness of his kicks. "So lots of people have jumped here, huh?" he asked.

"Enough that they felt cutting out a path was called for."

"I see. And how many times have you jumped?"

Sherlock's face lifted with a shrug, his eyes steady on the hidden path. "Every time I knew I needed to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Jump](http://botacochina.tumblr.com/image/48055932885) by the darling [Botacochina](http://botacochina.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

She called him Lala and never had John seen a sweeter sight than Sherlock's face, bright with surprise, when he realized those sounds meant him. It wasn't something they'd taught her. Mary and John had drilled 'Mama' and 'Dada' for ages with success on both counts but John had never thought to find something easier than 'Sherlock' for Analise to say. Clever child. It had taken John almost the better part of a week himself to realize the repetition of sounds meant something to her, that she was communicating an idea she wanted him to grasp and not just singing on the kitchen floor with her face pressed to the window. 'Lala bee' had not been lullaby nor had 'Lala go' been a flourished request. She'd needed a word to differentiate between the two men she often called upon and it made John laugh every time it made Sherlock blush. He was Lala now, too late to change it, though he doubted either of them had the want to try.

Any doubts John had had about relocating had worked themselves out just the same. While Sherlock maintained he didn't need to work or pay rent, depending on charity was more than John could stand. It only took a few weeks to get settled and unpacked and he'd spent a few more going over the area looking for work not too far out. The local surgery had no openings but the local primary school did. School physician was by far his least glamorous title but he was able to meet lots of other parents and people his own age to rebuild something of a social circle—which Sherlock continued to neglect. It was a small enough community that he was up on all the gossip within the weeks before school started, able to clarify a bit on some of it as well as Sherlock was never far from speculations. No, they weren't a couple and no, John wasn't gay. He got smiled at a lot more by the ladies in administration after that. He liked being smiled at. 

At the shops, it was always Analise who got all the smiles and affections. To her credit, she all but demanded it. John had once seen her throw a lemon on the floor just to get someone to pick it up and notice her. With her perfectly symmetrical pigtails and some of the most gaudy dresses grandma had ever bought for her, Analise was an attention seeking nightmare in the shops who could never be trusted within arm's reach of produce. Sherlock couldn't be trusted not to wander off most of the time so having them both confined to the shopping trolley was a match made in dear-god-there's-two-of-them heaven. Sherlock pushed, Analise fussed, and John got to fill the trolley in inventive ways so that only the items too heavy to throw were near the child's seat. It would be easier to shop alone but they usually all went together. Really, it was good to get the pair of them out of the house and where the world could see them. John wouldn't dare lie and say he didn't rather like being stopped just to be told what a beautiful little girl he had. He would, however, lie through his teeth to say he didn't sometimes miss-stack the cart just to watch a quick game of Lala fetch.

Sherlock and Analise were thick as thieves. The scientist's serious demeanor had worried John some during initial thoughts of child care. Taking a job meant someone had to watch her and while Sherlock's occupation as an at-home hobbyist left him with time enough to spare, he lacked the normal outward signs of affectionate concern one generally looked for in the long term. Sherlock was certainly never silly by normal standards, far above making ridiculous faces or noises, and fixed bug bites and fall damage without hugs or kisses. He was far from cold or unfeeling, though. He kept her pen outdoors while he worked, shading her with a large, white umbrella and giving her plenty of toys and flowers to play with that he'd proven edible and safe. He introduced her to dirt, mud and worms in a hands-on lesson and always let her be the one to scatter the lady bugs over the front garden. John never came home to TV parenting but on occasion found Analise running wild through the garden with Sherlock keeping her always in sight. It wasn't how Mary would have done it nor was it probably what John would have picked. Analise loved her Lala, though, and John hadn't a single doubt Sherlock cared for her as well. 

Four o'clock and John was eager to get home and hear about the day they'd had in his absence. He locked up the cabinets and the room behind him, walking down the school halls towards the faculty parking. It had taken a while to get used to the car but it proved vital to country living. He'd half expected Sherlock to have purchased something like the Land Rover they'd had out in Cornwall and the blue Ford Focus, though much more practical for a man of his age, had been somewhat of a disappointment to John. Still he rattled his keys from his pocket, tempted to pick something up for dinner on the way home and running over the options as he thumbed over house key, work keys, and finally the car's.

"John!"

John paused, looking back over his shoulder with a smile as he waved vaguely with his free hand. "Hello. Never see you leave this early," he said to the teacher from the second year block. Linda if he remembered correctly, and when it came to women he generally did.

Linda smiled and ducked her head in a sheepish gesture, folding her arms over her dusty pink cardigan. "And you leave entirely too quickly, sir." She pushed a lock of brown hair behind her ear. "I've been waiting for a kid to get the sniffles or something but they're never sick when you need them to be. I have something I wanted to ask you, though. Thing is, a few of us are thinking about going out for drinks on Friday. I wanted to make sure you knew. We'd love to have you."

"Yeah? Don't see why not. Who's all going?"

"Well, you. And me." She smiled again, shrugging her shoulders. "Early days still. I could probably find some more."

John licked his teeth, trying not to jump to the immediate conclusion he was being flirted with. She couldn't have been much older than thirty. He fiddled with his wedding band, making sure she could see the gesture. It generally worked to weed out the polite from the interested.

She noticed. And she blushed. "Either way, it'd just be a friends thing," she clarified, nodding her head to an unspoken question. "Coworkers, even. But, you know, no reason we can't all be friends too."

John smiled, taking pity on her growing awkwardness. "Put me down as a maybe for now. Call me with the details later?"

"Yes, right, sure!" Linda's smile grew as she stepped back towards the school doors with John getting his car door open. "I'll see you later, John!" she called back, walking backwards almost to the point of walking into the building itself.

John nodded and waved and ducked into his vehicle, trying not to smile as he did. She was a cute girl. They all were. In many ways he didn't mind their attention—it was a lovely boost to his self-esteem to be viewed as an attractive man when most of his daily rituals included being his daughter's slave and wearing whatever hadn't be soiled or stained in her service. It wouldn't be right to lead them on, though. He wore his wedding band as much for them as for himself. He wasn't ready yet, not by a long shot, but it was still nice to be reminded the game was still waiting for him if he ever wanted to join it again.

Most of the time, he didn't think he ever would. It wasn't because he believed Mary was the only woman in the world for him or felt he needed to remain faithful to her beyond the terms of their vows. Mary had been a remarkable person he would forever love and cherish but that did not make her the only person who could ever love him or be loved by him. Sherlock alone was proof against that. And he was happy, really, with what he had for now. It wasn't a romantic relationship with all the perks of having someone to cuddle up to in bed but it had its own perks all the same. There were no ceremonial expectations of dates and dinners and nights which would require additional services such as babysitters and entertainment expenses. He wasn't expected to do anything more than respectfully live his own life and be appreciative of the times Sherlock's intersected with his own. A committed friendship was really damn near marriage all things considered. John came home to a place he wanted to be, where people he loved were waiting. There wasn't much more one could ask for, really.

Except for on those random days where 'twice in three years' made him wish they lived in a much bigger town. He'd had a better record in the army. 

He parked the car in the drive, trying to not become so complacent with the sight of their front garden that he didn't notice the occasional change. With fall fast approaching, Sherlock seemed to have less to do as nature switched from vibrant and alive to wilting and in prep for hibernation. He worried sometimes how Sherlock would cope with his work more or less done for the rest of the year. It wasn't worth worrying about in excess. Sherlock had potted a few plants to be brought inside for his cross-breeding experiments and if it wasn't enough—and John suspected it wouldn't be—they'd deal with a solution at that time. Inside the house John was far from surprised to find the whole place empty. Analise was never indoors if she didn't have to be. He could see the large white umbrella from the kitchen windows and walked to the fridge to grab a bottled water before heading out back as well. Sherlock was laid out on a large red blanket, yellow hat tipped over his face while Analise lay stretching out across his stomach, arms out in front of her with her face planted in his shirt, drooling in her sleep. John brushed the cool water bottle to Sherlock's cheek before holding it out for him to take.

"Did she just belly flop into a nap?"

Sherlock tipped his hat back to better see John, taking his water with a courteous nod. "Just about."

"I see. Must have been a hell of an adventure today." John took a seat on the blanket beside him, warmed by Sherlock's chuckle as a cool breeze brushed over them.

"She played the game you like where she hides and you pretend you can't find her. She was very displeased when I proved her attempts to evade me to be completely ineffectual. I had to humor her for the rest of the afternoon until our language lesson. We'll revisit the fact that she can't hide anything from me when she's old enough to be impressed."

John laughed, leaning back on his elbows. "Between the two of us, I think we have the teenage years covered at least. Any new words?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She's getting better at digraphs but still gets sloppy and uses an F sound instead of a T-H. Tried to teach her 'father' to demonstrate the difference and instead it seems I taught her 'fat'. You're welcome."

"Well, she had to learn it sooner or later." John's amused smirk was going to bruise his cheeks if it spread any further. He pushed Sherlock's hat down over his face as he leaned forward to shake Analise awake. She'd never sleep for him that night if he let her continue on much later. She blinked up at him, her bottom lip hanging open as a thread of saliva linked her mouth to Sherlock's button. "Well, good morning, princess," he teased, getting a hold of her under her arms to pull up and into his lap. She fussed but only just. Lord, but she was getting heavy. "Do I get a hug?"

Analise wrapped her arms around his neck, still half asleep as she nuzzled in against his shoulder. "Home," she said, and tried to lean in for further sleep as his arms wrapped around her as well.

"I'm home," and he kissed her hair, arm slung under her padded backside as he managed to rise to his feet. He looked down at Sherlock as he adjusted his daughter in his arms. "I'm going to throw in a pizza from the freezer. Sound good to you?"

Sherlock nodded, hat back as it should be as he sat up to sip his water and to gather up the red blanket to him. "Sounds fine. I'll follow in a bit. I've still got my tools in the garden from earlier."

John left him to it, heading back inside with Analise barely even hanging on to his neck anymore. He kissed her cheek, doing his best to affectionately annoy her into staying awake. "Did you have fun today, Analise?" he asked, crunching though the loose pebbles back to the kitchen door.

"Lala BOO!" she replied with a surprisingly energetic bounce that nearly caught him under the chin. 

He giggled with her, nose pressed to her hair, as she told him all about her day.


	6. Chapter 6

Analise was at times a nightmare to put to sleep. It was almost as if she knew that adults had lives that carried on in her absence and felt a need to rectify that situation by never allowing John to leave. He read to her, sang to her, held her and walked in circles to try and wait out the reserves of her energy. On a bad night, it could take two hours. John felt rather lucky if he got out in under thirty minutes.

Coming back down the stairs, he sighed loudly at his success. That made three nights in a row before the one hour mark. He was getting better at it. Or she was. He was more than happy to call it a team effort. Sherlock was far from impressed, though. He didn't even bother to look up from his microscope as he sat at the dining room table with his slides prepped for viewing. "It would probably be more effective if you set the cut off rather than allow her to control bedtime."

John made a face at him. "I do not let her _control_ bedtime. If she's not tired, she's not tired. If I'm going to give her any credit there, I'm going to have to give you a bit of blame as well," he said, holding still a chiding finger beside his face. 

"Doesn't mean you can't just say goodnight and close the door. She'd scream herself to sleep in no time." 

"And to think anyone was ever worried about you taking care of children." John rolled his eyes with a thoughtful frown while Sherlock shrugged and continued adjusting one of the dials on his instrument. He'd be busy at that long into the night. John smiled and nodded towards the kitchen. "Beer?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't so much as look up. "No, thank you."

John had expected as much but hated not to offer. He walked to the kitchen, cracking open the fridge door to spy one of the three cans still in. As he bent to grab one, his pocket began to vibrate, his phone giving a short, buzzing warning before moving into a full song. John stood up and pulled his phone out, kicking the fridge door closed as he looked at the string of numbers on the display before holding it up to his ear. "Hello?"

"John?" a woman's voice called. "Hi, it's Linda."

"Oh. Hey, Linda." John sat his beer on the counter, pressing the phone between his shoulder and chin as he popped the top on the can. It was just past nine o'clock. While not _very_ late it wasn't exactly early evening anymore. She didn't sound distressed but it would certainly have warranted the call. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry about the time. I just wanted to let you know I spoke to a few others and it sounds like we'll have quite a group for drinks. Still think you can make it?"

"Oh, right." He'd almost forgotten over the days since they'd spoken. He could think of a few places he'd rather be on a Friday but it never hurt to get on with one's co-workers. Especially as a group. He readjusted the phone to his hand, finger trailing in the condensation of the drink he was waiting to take. "Tomorrow night, was it? I'll have to see if Sherlock can watch Analise but yeah, that should be fine. We going to meet at the pub or is there someplace I don't know about?"

He didn't get to hear Linda's reply. Sherlock took the phone from John's hand, thumb disconnecting the call before he tossed it towards the sofa. It was one of the ruder things Sherlock had done in a very long time which was John's only excuse for why he just stood there, hand out as though it still held the phone, staring in surprise as the device bounced against the cushions. Sherlock's face was almost unreadably blank though his silver eyes cut like a blade. John licked his lips, pinned by his shadow as Sherlock eclipsed the light from behind him. The moment felt unreasonably tense without buildup or decline. John looked away first, looking towards the stolen phone, and found instead a stolen kiss pressed against his lips.

It was the first time John had ever been kissed by someone with evening stubble. That should have been a signal to shove him away, one of the many of which all were ignored. He'd forgotten how amazing it felt. That static charge, the skip in one's pulse, the fun to lead and to follow. It'd been so long since he'd enjoyed that spark that zipped straight down his spine and sent waves of prickles through his skin. More, _god_ , more. He grabbed Sherlock's hips, dragging him closer, feeling his bent knee slide along his legs as the taller man bent to oblige. He smelled of wood chips and bleach and tasted of tea with sugar. John growled to feel his thigh press in against his own stirring erection, canting immodestly as he extended his hands past their grip on Sherlock's hips to roughly grope at the globes of his arse through the taut material of his tailored trousers. The surprised moan swallowed whole by their kiss was a rumble of excitement from lips to cock. He wanted this—John _needed_ this. A physical connection to another human being, the feel of another's body, the spontaneity of passion pushing and pulling towards a moment's eternity.

The phone on the sofa rang, the dual vibration humming against the padded seat. Like the stroke of midnight, the spell was broken and the startled shove sent Sherlock crashing against the kitchen counter. John breathed in shaky breaths, observing the wide-blown pupils and reddened lips as Sherlock remained somewhat painfully arched against the woodblock. The phone rang until it stopped, neither of them moving to get it, neither so much as looking away.

John stood scared-still, breath catching in his throat as he finally edged against the wall towards the stairs. He shook his head mutely, words more a mumble than a phrase. "No... Sorry, I...." There wasn't an end to that sentence. John grabbed the stair rail and followed it up, not looking back once he'd finally looked away. He bypassed his own room and took refuge in Analise's instead where she was fast asleep and quiet but still better company than four beige walls alone. He sat in the chair in the corner, immediately resentful of the fact that it wasn't a rocking chair as he rocked himself with nervous energy and a weakening discomfort in his trousers.

Oh, god, what had he done? What had _they_ done? _What was Sherlock thinking_? John cupped his mouth and nose between his hands, eyes on the door as though in fear that Sherlock would follow. Not now— _god, not now_ —and unrealistically never. The truth of Sherlock's affections were the feigned ignorance by which they both got by, the crux to their platonic status that allowed them to just be friends. Achilles' heel, Sampson's hair, the secret to the invincible strength behind their bond that just was and needn't be understood. It had been precious. John did not want to lose it. And by his own actions he could not escape the fear they'd pushed too far to reclaim it. 

With one last, deep, shuddering breath, John rolled his palms up over his head, fingers pressing through his hair. It had been one of the larger mistakes he'd made all year but still he warred to calm the part of him that wondered why they'd stopped.

+++

Work was hell. John had all but snuck out of the house in the morning, avoiding Sherlock and therefore the parts of the house with windows facing out into their garden. Most of them did. He didn't grab a lunch and so had to eat the cafeteria food which, while nutritional, did little to satisfy him. No primary school was truly going to cater to an appetite set on nothing but chips and lager. No salad or soup in the whole on mankind had ever played a part in soothing stress butterflies, though, and so John made do on paracetamol instead.

It didn't clear his thoughts any. It didn't ease the memories of a kiss returned or of the hedonistic vulgarity that surprised and mortified even himself. That wasn't him. He could be lustful, certainly, but never with so little concern to the context of the moment. It had been Sherlock kissing him and only one cause John could think of for him to do so. The man still loved him, not just as his friend. Good news for heartache, bad news for home life. John ran what he should say over and over and over again in his head until the hours rolled away and set him back in his car towards home.

He texted Linda with his excuses. He felt like shit for standing them up but he'd feel even worse if he didn't go home. Even if he had been, John didn't want Sherlock to think he was being evasive. Not coming home till later in the evening was the last thing they needed though being a bit late with fish and chips couldn't hurt. He supposed it was the housemate equivalent of a bouquet of flowers. Not that Sherlock was ever wanting for flora.

Sherlock and Analise were inside already when John walked in, plastic take-away bag in hand. It had been an artistic day going by the stripes of color on the tile floor and the handprints of olive green on the wall. Sherlock had Analise sitting on the counter, wiping blue from her eyebrows while he sported a long red splatter across his own cheek. Seeing John he lowered the excited little girl to the floor to let her run and hug his legs with mostly clean hands and more splashes of colors staining her clothes. 

"We gave finger painting a try," he said, nodding to the counter where abstract works of art lay drying. 

John put the food down and picked his daughter up. Talking would have to wait.

Bath time was a nightmare. Sherlock had done fairly well with her skin but Analise's hair boasted dried on specs and blobs of every color. When washing wasn't enough, John picked through the straight blonde locks with a comb until every last drop of paint was removed. It was hard not to see it as some kind of punishment—cosmic or by Sherlock's design. She hated having to sit still and let him fuss over her hair. Between a full day of play and an hour’s screaming at him to let her get up, Analise fell asleep quite quickly, nearly as soon as he laid her in her cot. He was worn out himself from the effort, really, but kissed her head and went back downstairs where Sherlock was dutifully pouring acid along the grout to remove the mixed brown stains, paper mask over his mouth and nose.

"I take it you expected her to be cleaner," John said, leaning on the counter to watch him. The paintings had dried over dinner and were held fast to the fridge by watermelon and banana shaped magnets.

Sherlock glanced up then shrugged, rubbing a gloved finger along the dissolving mark. "It was fine until we decided the paper was a little too restrictive."

"We?"

"You think I'm picking up after _her_?" Sherlock raised his left brow inquisitively as he returned to mopping up the acidic solution with a soiled rag. "I'd probably leave it if it weren't brown. Remind me to pick up an extra tarp next we're out."

John nodded, smiling slightly as his stomach began to clench around dinner for some sense of internal security. It still felt stone-like and heavy. It would be nice to stay like this—ignoring the previous night entirely and carrying on as though nothing had happened. He appreciated Sherlock's efforts, really. But it would be cowardly to accept them. He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Sure thing... ah, if you have a minute, I thought we might...talk." His throat felt dry but he didn't dare go for another beer.

Sherlock glanced up then nodded slowly, pulling off his Marigold gloves as he stood to deposit his toxic supplies in the waste bin and his own locked cabinet. John decided it best not to watch him and give him some peace for the moment as he relocated himself to the den and his chair. It seemed the best place for it. It was a safe zone in many ways and the familiar comforts of their customary seats were a welcome presence in the midst of an indigestion inducing conversation. Much as John had planned for and drilled the things to come, he was no more ready for it than he was the night before.

Sherlock sat in his own chair, straight-backed and suspicious, eyes on John as he maintained the static pose. He was far from a fool; he knew exactly what this was about. "I'd like to clarify, if I may, that I did not kiss you because I want things between us to change," he said, bypassing all of John's rehearsed preamble and skipping ahead to the meat of it. "But if you're dissatisfied and are looking to date again, I needed to know you were still aware I consider myself an option."

John licked his lips, sliding the moistened halves against each other as he breathed before reply. "I'm aware. I haven't forgotten. Sherlock, Linda wasn't asking me out on a date. It was a group thing. Bunch of people from work just getting together, whinging over a couple pints. If I thought anyone else was bringing a plus one, I'd have gotten a sitter and asked you to come with me. I'm not looking to date right now."

Sherlock's cheeks colored quickly—or so it seemed, though the scrubbing of the red paint had left a rosy permeation. "Sorry," he said, nearly under his breath as he looked away, fingers fidgeting at his knees in a dead tell.

"It's fine." John took another deep breath, absolutely sure he'd have made himself sick by morning from the pressure in his gut. "God, I don't even know how to start this conversation," he admitted with a sigh, eyes searching the ceiling for the words that had evaded him all day.

"That wasn't it?"

John shook his head. "No. No, not by a long shot. Because I... I can't live my life to make you happy, Sherlock. And really, I say that more to remind myself than because I think you don't know that. You're the one who consistently shows me the value of doing what’s right for oneself. And I don't know the future so I can't say for certain I won't date anyone and fall in love and get married again. And I know what that would do to you and it hurts to think of going back to that again but... If you died tomorrow, I'd still have my own life to live. I can't base my life's decisions on what's best for you. And I don't expect you to believe me when I say that _hurts_... I can't describe how much... to know I can hurt you just by that. So often I would rather be sleep deprived, starving and generally miserable just to watch you smile and dance about on a case or something. Day to day I would sacrifice almost anything for your happiness. But I can't for the big things. I can't let myself." He let his head hang, feeling a greater burden with things spoken, miles from relieved to finally say them. He rubbed his face, feeling very old under the weight of it all. "It’d be great if I woke up tomorrow and everything changed and suddenly I was in love with you in the way that would solve everything. After all these years, though—after all we've been through—if I was going to fall in love with you, don't you think I would have by now?"

Sherlock's face was stony, eyes intense. They did not waver in their stare as they bored into John, felt even when he wasn't looking back. "You're not going to ever consider me," he stated with no inflection or emotion.

John nodded, lips pursed. "It might be awkward if we tried. I don't even know _how_ we'd try. What would be so different about a night out that isn't just you and me like we used to be? I mean, add kissing? Holding hands? Making out? How do you come back from that? Trust me, it's _hard_ to just be friends with someone you've been intimate with. Whoever broke it off always ends up with all the power in the relationship and I don't want that with us."

Sherlock neither moved nor spoke, still and attentive as a Sunday congregation.

"And that doesn't even cover the fact that you could do a lot better than me. And I'm not just saying that," he continued. John felt he was rambling now but silence felt worse with Sherlock looking at him like that. "I mean just _look_ at you. Sherlock, you deserve nights at the symphony and dinner at classy venues that require a jacket and tie. You should be completely swept off your feet in the chaos of romance and smile all day for no apparent reason. You should be with someone who makes you delirious with happiness who can devote every hour of the day to making sure you know you're loved. You deserve nothing less than absolute devotion. And I'm a widower with a kid whose music collection includes such chart toppers as 'The Wheels On the Bus' and 'The ABCs' who brings you home takeaways, asking you to pick up your feet while I sweep the floor and reminding you every day to make sure Analise doesn't eat a bee. I don't think that I could ever give you everything you deserve. Because you deserve the world."

"I'm not arguing that point in the slightest." Sherlock said, hands folding into a steeple under his chin. "I deserve nothing short of the best, in fact. But it's really not up to you to decide the means by which I measure."

John hadn't expected that, somehow. And he was right, of course. Somehow no matter how many times one ran a conversation through their brain, there were contingencies that could not be foreseen. Sherlock's ego and obstinacy should not have been among them. John could not help but smile slightly at their addition to the weighty conversation. He much preferred the fire in Sherlock's eyes to the ice. "I promise you, no matter what happens, it won't be like last time. I cannot imagine one person offering me more in my life than you do already. I've done married life, I'm doing fatherhood, there is literally nothing I have left to experience. And I have everything I need."

"Other than an active sex life," he quipped. It was hard to tell if he was being defensive or observant. Sometimes with Sherlock it was both.

"Celibacy has certainly been.... Well, it's not my preferred status but it's not going to kill me. I think mortification over my actions last night will make it easier for a while."

"I didn't mind."

"I grabbed your arse and humped your thigh. There are wild animals who are better behaved than I was."

"I didn't mind," Sherlock repeated.

John smiled wearily. "Still. Sorry. I don't normally act that way. Especially not to just a kiss." He let his head roll back on the last of his speech, finding it hard to focus on everything when there was just so much to say. "Are we okay? I mean... I don't want our conversations to be about all the things we're not. There's a lot more we could focus on. Better things, really."

Sherlock sat up from his chair, arms down at his sides as he stood attentive on the rug. His voice was no longer flat though his eyes were narrow and thickly shrouded. "I'm sure I understand. You're not in love with me nor do you expect you ever will be. You are not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with me under any circumstances and any evidence in contradiction is an act of nature outside best judgments. Our roles are set and defined and best left unchanged and one day you may leave again but it has nothing to do with me because I deserve better anyway."

John could not help the wince that pulled his eyes closed and his lips taut at the sound of his own sentiments recounted in such easy summation, no punches pulled and no kindness to soften. And for the life of him he could not find a place to correct him for all the want to make it sound less like he hadn't a care for his feelings at all. John breathed deep through his nose, staring up at his friend in stunned, broken silence. "How are you still my friend?" he asked with no answer of his own readily available.

Sherlock tipped his chin nonchalantly. "I don't know how not to be."

"Do you ever wish you weren't?"

"No," he said, and walked closer to John's chair. "I think you're right, though. This isn't something we can afford to dwell on. Starting tomorrow, not another word on the subject."

John nodded, bile in the back of his throat. "Right. Okay."

"Which means you have a much smaller window to yell at me for this." And without further warning, he bent down and kissed John again, his hand cupping the back of his head to still his protesting jerk. The strong smell of soap filled John's nostrils as Sherlock's face became the extent of his sight. He didn't taste of sugar this time but of the oils from the chip shop and the remnants of malt vinegar. Sherlock cut the kiss short but did not let go of John's head, keeping himself firmly set as centerpiece for John's vision. "Don't think for one second that you have any power over me, John Watson," he said with surprising conviction. His eyes burned hot like molten silver. "I make the rules by which I live and you're merely along for the ride. Keep your sentiment and your sympathies. I am not here _for_ you, you are here _with_ me. Remember that the next time you give a thought to who has the most to lose."

He let go of John and righted himself with the same calm stoicism he faced nearly everything with, not a smile but far from a frown aligning the corners of his mouth. His own piece spoken, he turned and walked up the stairs to the rooms above, calling back in an almost parody of their daily tone, "Turn the lights out before you turn in," as he rose to the top.

John sat agape in the den, lips buzzing once more, stunned and somehow even more confused than ever as he looked on in the impossible man's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably could have been written a lot better but I just got tired of working on it. Not a fan of long chapters~


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was gone by the third week of October. Lestrade had a case and Sherlock still owned their Baker Street rooms as his functional London address. He made sure Analise was enrolled at a child care facility, packed a small bag, then left with less than a day between phone call and absence. It hadn't come as much of a surprise. He was bored, sentenced to their home's confines to watch his season's work discolor and die. He'd exhausted most indoor activities and John had found Sherlock on more than one occasion lying on the sofa with Analise on his chest watching television shows not really suited for the under fourteen. Whether she innocently assumed the people were covered in jam or not, it spoke volumes for the extreme stagnation tearing through Sherlock's brain for the thought of suitable entertainment not to even occur to him. So he left, smile big, kiss to Analise's head and a nod to John as they dropped him off at the train station. If it weren't for work, John would have liked to have gone with him. Mrs. Hudson might even still be spry enough to keep up with an energetic toddler. But Sherlock went by himself, John's gun insisted upon his person as he gleefully returned to the city for a foray into his winter hobby.

The house was far too quiet now. Sherlock hadn't been the noisiest of housemates but his presence was loud in stature. John found he missed him most when Analise was put to sleep and there was time left in the day when they'd usually talk about things unrelated to his daughter. They'd given up most serious conversations weeks back but films and books and the science of gardening filled in the hours with the comfort of adult conversation. There was no one to play the violin now when Analise refused to let John leave and dutifully fall asleep past the two hour mark. John found himself slipping slightly, letting Analise sleep with him instead, and tried to give himself the excuse of acclimating his daughter to a big girl bed. It was lonely with only the two of them there, though. He wasn't the only one to notice.

Analise hated day care. She was terrible at sharing and it seemed at some point she learned to bite as her preferred defensive strategy against the other children. John had always figured any child of his would surely give reason for one or two calls home from school but hadn't expected such an early start. He did a lot of apologizing to a lot of parents of children sporting red indentations of Analise's teeth. It was the catch 22 of allowing ones child to socialize, he supposed. She'd learn from the other kids both the good and the bad and he could only hope to take her back home and weed the wicked out. At home, though, she was almost worse. John found the only thing that would placate her was letting her wear Sherlock's yellow hat. She didn't understand why he wasn't there with her anymore or why they no longer spent a lot of time outside or where the flowers had gone. But the hat made her happy and despite his better intentions, it was so much easier to placate than to parent when it was solely up to him. 

He wanted to call but didn't dare, hoping Sherlock would do so or text or _something_ to let him know how everything was going. Sherlock might be stalking someone, in the middle of something dangerous, with the last thing he needed being the ringing of a mobile as John took the initiative instead. By day three he was so glued to the news, however, looking for any clue possible as to what Sherlock might be up to, that John thought a simple text surely couldn't hurt. " _How's the case_?" he sent, and in little more than a minute received: _Long. Bored at NSY._

_Can you talk?_

_That'd be fine._

John smiled and pressed his speed dial as he settled into the sofa, feet on the coffee table as Analise colored in a book beside his heels. It rang longer than he had presumed it would with Sherlock expecting his call. He answered though, the voice notably deeper with sleep deprivation though not hushed among the sounds of the Yarders in the least.

"Hello, John," he said, and John could hear the smile in his tone.

"Hey," he replied with no shortage of relief at hearing from him again. Analise looked up at her father oddly, questioning the phone for a second before going back to coloring in the yellow nose on the dog.

Sherlock didn't ask or wait to see if there was a reason why John would want to call. He plowed ahead into his own conversation with the bustle of work in the background. "I want you to know I've had to permanently disable auto-correct on my phone thanks to you. I have asked Yard forensics on no less than five different occasions to update me on their Analise of the fibers I found, if their Analise has concluded and if I could get a copy of their Analise ASAP."

John could hardly stifle the laugh that rumbled in his nose. "Oh, did you," he managed, cheeks pulled straight into his eyes. "Well, I'm sure they haven't teased you. Much. Don't suppose you want to know what your _Analysis_ has been up to?"

Sherlock hummed. "Put me on speaker." 

John pulled the phone away and thumbed the button to broadcast his call, lying down on his stomach on the sofa to get closer to where Analise sat on the floor. "Analise, guess who," he said, and held the phone between them.

"Hello, Little Bee."

And her face lit up. She put her hands on her face in a studied mockery of true surprise as she bounced on the floor with a laugh.

"You have to talk; he can't see you." John held the phone closer to her to try and catch every note of her giggle. "You want to tell Sherlock how you bit three kids at the nursery and made daddy leave work early to come talk to your teacher?"

She did not. She grabbed for the phone instead, the loud beep of tones as her fingers depressed numbers making John wince as he pulled it away. She scowled at him, not fully grasping the phone idea. "Mine!" she shouted, and banged her hands on the table. 

John sighed, grabbing one of her fists to make her stop. "You have to be nice if you want to say hello. No hitting."

"Hit Lala!"

"I'd like to see you try."

"I think we can be assured she doesn't actually know that word yet." John said as he shook his head, smiling despite himself and the grumpy face his daughter leveled him with, red enough to threaten to cry. "But you see what you left me with?" he asked, trying to placate her with soothing strokes to her head.

"She's _your_ daughter."

"Yeah, well, she misses you a lot." She wasn't the only one but it was awkward to put into words and for the most part unnecessary. Sherlock knew. John gave Analise's nose a boop which generally worked to reset her temper. She crossed her eyes and blinked at him sourly before grabbing her crayon and returning to what was still somewhat identifiable as a black outlined dog.

John turned the speaker off and rolled over onto his back, finding a corner of privacy in Analise's artful indifference as he pressed the phone to his ear instead. There were still at least fifty rainbow colored bits of cereal stuck on the ceiling above him from one of Sherlock's more stagnant days, the bits of crusted-on food refusing to fall down. It was good a big case came through, really. Sherlock needed the stimulation. The only place he was likely to find it, though, was London this time of year. There was literally nothing for Sherlock in Sussex with the bees hibernating and his garden much the same. There was just John and Analise, more or less house sitting at this point, while John took minor consolation in the fact Sherlock had only taken with him a small bag. 

The Tannoy System in the phone's background gave pause to the conversation as Sherlock waited until the disturbance was over. It certainly sounded as though the case was still in full swing from the sliding of drawers and the ringing of phones. John wondered if anyone else there was as bored as Sherlock seemed. He very much doubted it. "I'll be back once the case wraps up," he said, clearing the sleep from his throat. "No telling how much longer that will be or how long until the next one but it's not an unbearable train ride." 

"Has the case been dangerous?"

He could almost hear Sherlock shrug. "Sometimes. Gang activity with a few murders in the ranks. Pretty cut and dry save for an actual apprehension. I'm only sticking around to make sure they don't mess it up," he said as someone in the background started yelling incomprehensibly.

John put his finger into his other ear to try and minimize the background noise on his end, having more than enough to deal with on Sherlock's which seemed to be getting louder. "So you think maybe you'll be back this week?" he asked.

At the same time, though, on the other end, he could hear Lestrade speaking as well. "—got them surrounded by the train yard. Are you riding with me?" Judging by how easily he could be heard, it wasn't hard to figure out whom he was speaking to.

"I won't sit in the back," Sherlock told Lestrade.

John frowned, "Sherlock?" 

"Fine. We get these guys, I don't care where you sit."

"Sherlock, if you have to go—"

"Yes." he said with Lestrade's ' _is that John_?' half heard before the call abruptly ended.

Not even a goodbye. It was pretty much exactly what he'd come to expect. Flinging the phone to the coffee table with a sigh, it certainly didn’t seem to have gotten any easier to accept. When Sherlock had a case, the whole world could take a back seat. Nothing and no one competed with casework no matter the seriousness or latency of the crime. John had forgotten how much he hated the feeling. Eight years of being ignored and left behind should not have so easily been pardoned.  
Of all the years of their friendship, especially the ones in which they lived together as bachelors, there was never any room for compromise. Sherlock's work always came first. No matter what John did, no matter how useful he had been or how indispensable his marksman skills were on any particular case where defense was paramount, he was a secondary thought. Easily forgotten. Left behind. Ignored. It had been the spark of many arguments back in the day, before he learned to accept his place in Sherlock's life as an accompaniment to his brilliance with no illumination of his own. He could not arrest Sherlock's attention with the same surety of a murder. He could not compete with bloodshed and mayhem with any act of concern or kindness. Sherlock only reacted to the macabre and dangerous and scoffed at the mundane and normal. The first year had undoubtedly been the rockiest of those they'd seen. People didn't normally treat people the way Sherlock did. Sociopath never sounded so right. Psychopath would have worked just as well. Sherlock had been an unfeeling _thing_ of infinite curiosity that John had grabbed on to as he passed out of his own fascination. 

His girlfriends had thought they had it rough trying to contend with Sherlock Holmes but he doubted any of them would have done much more than laugh had they taken on the impossible task of competing with corpses.

Analise picked up and slapped in John's face the coloring book she'd been working on, making sure he could get a good look by holding it against his cheek. It was hard to be annoyed by the distant past with the future literally right in front of him. John peeled the book back, looking at the mess of a page that was one entire scribble of yellow.

"It's beautiful," he cooed, and kissed her head as she giggled in pride and ran away with it to hold against the fridge till he came, completely forgetting being mad at him before with only self-satisfaction left to fuel her.

John gave a long groan as he rose back up, scratching at his stomach as he walked to the kitchen to carefully rip the page out for its customary display. Analise picked out the strawberry magnet. They hung it low so she could put it on herself.

"Lala come home?" she asked.

"No. Lala's busy," he said, trying not to frown so perhaps she would let it slide and accept distraction. He picked her up, setting her up on his hip. "Sherlock may be busy a lot. You have daddy, though, yeah? Daddy's cool."

She nodded, hugging his neck as he carried her back to the den to pop in a film about mice with bright colors and pleasant songs. If he was lucky it'd be something they could both fall asleep to. He set Analise on his lap, letting her snuggle close as she rested against his chest.

"Lala see Mama?"

"... No, baby. Sherlock's coming home." He kissed her head and let the film begin to play, keeping her close as much for his comfort as for hers.


	8. Chapter 8

John received a text message an hour before his work day was done. It simply said " _Have Analise_ " and had come from Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't keep the smile off his face the rest of his day, thinking about how Sherlock would have had to have made the extra stop in his cab to get her and yet hadn't thought it better to just wait the hour at home for John and her to return. She must have been ecstatic. It was nice to know she was missed.

He could hear the violin even before he'd opened the car door and shook his head with a wide smile parting it as he walked up the path to the front entry, tapping lightly at the wood as he entered so as not to startle them from their revelry. Sherlock played on in the center of their den, stepping slowly with the beat like the pied piper of strings, as Analise danced around, arms wide, with no care to how fast or slow he played. It was mostly jumping, lots of spinning to make her dress swing out like the icing of a strawberry cupcake, but fundamentally dancing all the same. She seemed to hardly notice when John came in, pulling off his coat and scarf, though Sherlock looked over and gave him a small smirk on the down bow before turning with the up. John hadn't seen him in a full suit in some time. He looked quite smart in his black jacket. 

When Analise did finally begin to care that her father had returned as well, she tugged on his trousers and ordered him to dance. He was tired, he wanted very much to have a seat for a bit, but he could hardly disobey a direct order. He sank down to his knees slowly, long past the stage of feeling self-conscious when giving in to his child's whims, and moved his hips while pumping his arms with the same lack of care given to the tempo Sherlock set. They were super stars every one of them. John held Analise's hand to let her twirl under his and took both of hers so together they could wiggle and jive. He was sure the song was supposed to have ended and that Sherlock was reprising a few bars one too many times. He let him play on though and did not stop dancing until the last note fell away and John clapped as Analise bounced with a curtsey under Sherlock's practiced bow. Her amusement gone, she ran off to find another, giggling all the way to her toy chest. John sighed and rolled onto his backside, getting up not really worth the effort as he leant an elbow on the coffee table.

"It'll be tea parties next," he said, rubbing at his left knee.

Sherlock smirked on a hum, putting his violin away into her safe and comfortable case lined in black velvet. "I'm sure we've a few more years before we're forced into bonnets," he offered, closing the case with a _snap_ of the metal fasteners before setting it on the chair for a moment. He offered John his hand and while the doctor had only just gotten himself marginally comfortable on the rug, he grabbed his wrist and wrenched himself back up with the aid. War bones were old bones. He rather hated the wet chill of late autumn and what it did to the worn cartilage in his joints. They were probably due for another thunderstorm soon. He rather hated being a weather man.

"Coffee?" Sherlock asked.

"Love some," John said, more than ready to feel the warmth in his belly that might set in and warm his bones. 

Sherlock picked up his violin case from the chair, walking purposefully towards the stairs. "Me too," he said with a contained smirk as he went up to put his things away.

The right bastard. John couldn't help the smile as he sighed and walked to the kitchen himself, getting the machine pulled out on the counter to set the water and grounds within. He didn't mind. Analise was finally worn out and appeased, something John had had a fair time doing on his own. Much as he loved every second she demanded of him, it was nice to see her content to play by herself without needing the reassurance he was still there and watching. He was always watching, though. It was almost more fun to watch her fill the back of her dump truck with toys than it was to help by playing with the loader. She could be rather picky with where the dolls sat with cars and building blocks in the back of her yellow plastic lorry. Better to watch and learn from the master mover herself as she scooted the big wheeled vehicle across the floor to unload with far less finesse under Sherlock's dining room table of science. By the time John had the sugar out and mugs set out for drinking, Analise was trying to drive her lorry straight up the table legs. Not the most convincing construction worker but he'd bow to the suspension of reality to imagine that perhaps in her world lorries could fly. 

Sherlock returned once the coffee was done, the permeating aroma of the steaming brew a fairly obvious clue that their beverage was ready to be enjoyed. He came down the steps to thunder, shivering rain not yet patting against the roof. John pressed Sherlock's mug closer once his friend took his perch at a bar seat and leaned against the worktop opposite with his own pressed between his palms at his lips. It was nice, this. He'd missed it. Perhaps more than he liked to admit.

The thunder rolled overhead again. The sun was only just setting but the sky was already dark with greys, purples and blues. John looked to make sure Analise was still calm and happy. She never seemed to mind the rain. He felt fortunate in that.

Looking back at Sherlock, John drummed his fingers on the warm ceramic between his hands. He could understand the quiet as they both listened to the wind through the trees outside but it seemed far too intrusive somehow to remain content with silence. "So... how'd it go?" he asked, taking a sip once his question was in the air.

Sherlock shrugged, overplaying the bored angle as he tilted his chin down towards his chest. "Stopped a gang war and uncovered a developing criminal ring under one of the leaders that was doing business with smuggler organizations in the Continent," he said, as though it were something that happened every day.

"Sounds exciting."

"It was fairly entertaining. Better than nothing," he humbly agreed. John was sure he'd had fun.

John liked 'fun' in these moments, when the bad guys were taken care of and things were safer for everyone else. It was hard not to smile and join in the mild celebration of Sherlock's superiority when it was safe to enjoy the relief as well. It was the high before the crash, a fact of life they both knew well, but it was gratifying to hear that for the moment, things were good.

"Hopefully you're not too bored while you wait for another one," John said with a tad more resignation than he cared to admit. There was going to be another one, obviously. Until spring came back around, what else _could_ there be for Sherlock? He needed it, they both knew he did, and there was no need to explain or compromise on it when it was a part of Sherlock they both knew he needed. John let the warm liquid cool on his tongue before swallowing the bitter drink. It cured the cold that ailed him as readily as murder did Sherlock's own maladies. He sighed as he let his mug rest on the woodblock, nodding away his reservation. "You know, I was thinking... if you need someone to help you get your science equipment back up to London, I could help. I mean, if you'd rather spend winter in London again like last year, that's fine. I'd help." He'd hate it but it'd be alright. And it was what was best for Sherlock, surely. Best to offer and let it be said than wait to be told or wake up one morning to a note.

Sherlock didn't bat an eye. "That won't be necessary," he said, licking coffee from the arch of his upper lip.

"Are you sure?" John hated the hopeful lilt to his voice and cleared it with a grunt. "I mean, you have a place to live up there, you have something to do. London just... makes the most sense for you."

"I moved away for a reason, John. This is my home. I would rather come home."

"So you're just... going to go back and forth all winter?"

Sherlock nodded. "That's my plan, yes."

"Why?" It was stupid to ask but he'd managed to say it before thinking somehow. John bit the inside of his lip, pressing on just to be sure. Even an ill-thought question had some merit worth understanding. "I mean, it just... it doesn't make sense. You're a misery when you're bored."

The scientist took a long, deep breath, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "John, I'm forty years old. It's about time I started living with the living rather than for the dead."

If sounded pretty; it sounded like it should mean a lot more than it did, like it held more weight than John's understanding of the English language could carry. He held his tongue on another request for explanation, not quite sure if he seemed more stupid for not getting it than for failing to say he didn't. What it meant effectually was Sherlock wasn't going to move out for the next several months. That was fine; that was good.

Sherlock wasn't okay with just an effectual understanding, though. Of course he'd read it in John's face, maybe a quirk of his lips or a falling of his brows. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the counter's lip, as he gestured in explanation with the calm baritone of his voice to lead. "Everyone is capable of murder, John," he said, hardly a fitting beginning but attention grabbing for certain. "Not everyone can take their own life but everyone can take another's. People are inherently selfish like that, driven by the possession of things deemed worthy of killing for. Sometimes it's a love of oneself, a sense of pride or avarice, but most of the time it's love of another or of an ideal. For my entire professional career love has been nothing but a motive of crime. But anything worth killing over is also worth living for. It's been long past time to change my perspective." Sherlock breathed with the pregnant pause, eyes slipping out towards the grey sky and shifting leaves of the side garden lost to them for now. He seemed to smile, tight lipped, but honest. The lightening lit up the evergreens as thunder roared once more. "In the spring this place is more alive than I have ever been. And I get to be part of that. It's not so dead now though that I have nothing. There is still more here for me than in all the mortar and concrete of London. I'll probably never stop the odd macabre sabbatical but I don't want to be defined by my knowledge of death and decomposition. I have fifty seven different types of pollinating flowers in my garden and two different breeds of honey producing bees. I am capable of appreciating more than I have limited myself to. I want to be with the living; I am with the living. And I will return to it as much as I like."

John found himself in a stupor, not stunned but merely quieted into an almost numbness of thought. He’d known Sherlock had changed, had remarked on it the first time he’d arrived in Fair Hill Cottage, and yet somehow it seemed so easy to forget just how much. He couldn't remember when Pinocchio became a real boy. There was no evidence to suggest he'd ever noticed when the Tin Man was shown to have a heart. There were some things about Sherlock that were always Sherlock but there had been a point—and John knew he'd missed it—when some things ceased to be. 

Somewhere along the years he'd become wrong in thinking Sherlock was the same person he'd met that first day, the man who cared for not even himself and hadn't a guess on the virtues of sentiment. John still saw the lack of humanity where the gaps in his awareness remained, the cracks in the façade of a normal person that were a part of Sherlock’s unique approach to interpersonal interaction. He saw what he expected to see, sight tinted by a grey fog of disapproval that seemed to have failed to recognize the changes in him like the changes of the season, all color masked in monochrome. He’d forgotten those moments of splendor when Sherlock showed himself to be full of surprises and warmth and had chosen to remember instead the ancient past which was full of missteps and unfeeling. He’d fallen into habit; Sherlock had not. Sherlock was not the man John held in memory like a stubborn idea, proven false but maintained with unreasonable conviction.

How had he ever been surprised he wasn't in love with Sherlock Holmes when he still chose to remember him as amazing but hopelessly flawed? Every flutter in his belly and uneven palpitation in his chest, every lingering stare and caught breath had been met with his own reprimanding, his mind telling him to stop and reconsider. He wasn’t gay, and even if he did want Sherlock—a foolish train of thought—he was certainly better for not pursuing anything if he wanted to keep his own heart intact. Love beyond friendship wasn’t worth considering ten years ago and he hadn’t allowed himself to consider it since. Sherlock would always be the old Sherlock, smiling while children huddled in terror in captivity and laughing at his own brilliance in light of someone else's untimely loss. And John would never be able to compete with his want of another’s misfortune no matter how much they shared in the thrill of justices’ pursuit. 

Ten years of never forgetting and never seeing past; a decade of repressed disappointment without the acceptance of the attempts. Sherlock was not perfect, but he was a far better man than he had been. He wasn’t a high functioning sociopath who just happened to bring John along. He was the most brilliant man in John’s life, in terms of genius and overall grandeur. He was a beacon, not a blind spot. He was the lighthouse, not the rocks. Who he had been might have had the power to break him, but who he was had surely saved his life. This time that appearance of caring wasn’t a rouse; Sherlock wasn’t going to drop the mask and dash his hopes that expectations had finally become real. It was far past time to retire the belief that Sherlock Holmes was less man than machine. He loved and he truly understood what it meant to love. And John was an idiot, just like they’d always known. Thank god they both knew there was an allowance for that.

"Biscuit?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

John nodded and turned to open up the cabinet door above the coffee maker. "Oh, and uh... welcome home, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, holding his mug in his hands once more as he paused to take a drink. "Thank you, John. Now I believe it's your turn to tell me about your week."

John grabbed the biscuit tin and shut the cabinet doors as the rain began to fall in syncopation against the windowpane.


	9. Chapter 9

John got a bottle of homemade gooseberry wine for Christmas in the Secret Santa at work. The tall brunette in administration was kind enough to offer him a warning about the bottle's contents, having been the recipient two years before of the customary gift. The story started with a night in with the girls and ended in a brief explanation of why, if one looked closely enough, they could still see a pair of purple knickers stuck at the top of a tree in Queens Park. The recipient from the year prior, a 2nd year teacher, admitted to never having uncorked his. John hadn't initially been all that impressed by the gift, appreciative but hardly enthusiastic, but leaving the party with the bottle in hand, he felt perhaps Santa was quite good at these things. John had gotten a potentially volatile bottle of mysteriously potent fermented adventure juice. It sat on a rack over the Christmas holiday as a special New Year treat to ring in the future and toast to the past. He rather liked the idea of getting completely smashed. Christmas had been easier than he'd expected but still hard all the same. His first without her; the inaugural of many more to come. Best not to think of it that way. The holidays marked new beginnings as much as they did the loss. His first toast of the New Year would be to Mary and the joy of memories they’d made. His second, unarguably, would be to Sherlock with no real need to elaborate as to why. 

Most days he thought about Mary maybe once or twice. Some days not at all. Christmas had been rich with unwanted reflection, though. It seemed every call and card over the holidays had felt it necessary to bring up her death and his coping of it. They'd known the Christmas past that it would be the last one, that the New Year would herald darker times eventually and somewhere in the following twelve months something would give and she would go. She lasted four. It had made the whole celebration between one year and the next a hard point to celebrate when all it meant was one number that could be pre-filled on a death certificate without too much worry of inaccuracy. Bitterness as much as heartache made him generally avoid lingering too long on her absence. But though it made his chest ache more than normal to be forced into memories and fond contemplations, it still wasn't pain. He liked that. It was hard not to smile knowing it was that much easier to enjoy the good rather than avoid it all for the sorrow of it being a thing of the past. One of the few promises Mary had asked of him was to smile when he thought of her rather than frown. It was the kind of thing one agreed to without any real thought or any intention outside of placating and pleasing. John liked that he could do it, though. One thing to check off the short list that started with ' _Give Analise my ring when she's old enough_ ' and ended in ' _Don't be alone._ ' He wasn't alone, would never be alone with their daughter to raise, but he knew what she meant. She'd been very vocal on her want for him to find love again, had even suggested divorce near the end if it would help him move past future feelings of being unfaithful. There had always been something soul shattering about listening to a hopeless woman worry about her hopes for him but even that made him smile slightly now, thinking of the way her nose had wrinkled when he scowled with the return of such black topics of conversation.

She had been one of the few people on earth he could consider a best friend. He didn't want this New Years to be the first date on a short countdown to the anniversary of her death. So instead he rented every zombie film in the shop, even some he hadn't heard of before, and settled in for a movie marathon in honor of the undead and everlasting.

Sherlock hadn't watched any decent zombie movies due to their inaccurate depictions of decaying matter and scientific implausibility which was only slightly less appalling than his previous lack of Bond knowledge. John let Sherlock pick their film order from the more than decent selection while he made cottage pie for dinner—though a grotesque serving of spaghetti had been a pausing thought. Analise was in bed by nine giving them more than enough time to put the baby gate up at the top of the stairs and pull the television into the open. They left the lights of the Christmas tree on and turned out the rest, the parti-colored twinklings a comfortable backdrop for screams and blood and horror. John made sure the volume wasn't going to carry the sounds too far up the stairs then hurried back towards his spot with bottle and wine glasses to share.

Sherlock, bundled in a red jumper John had bought him for Christmas, sat in the far corner of the sofa with their night's entertainment stacked in a short tower on the table before him while the DVD menu waited for John to press play. John took the other corner, a few short blankets shared between them against the brisk cold of the season. There was frost on the window and a dusting of snow on the sill. John set the film in motion then proceeded to pop the cork off the wine and pour two glasses full of the homemade drink which he rather hoped was as strong as it smelled.

"This one has fast zombies," he said, setting Sherlock's stemmed glass in front of him. "Little more on the action side of things."

Sherlock seemed unimpressed, swirling and smelling at the deep amber liquid with eyebrows raised in question—not of John but of the glass's contents. "If we're going to be entertaining the idea of the living dead, may as well start with the most improbable and work our way down in ridiculousness."

"No one said you have to believe in zombies to be entertained by them." John was the first to take a tentative sip and found it proved the brunette in administration quite right, the moisture practically sucked from his mouth while his lips nearly set to pucker at the tart tang of the fruit. It most certainly was a strong wine with a heavy bouquet. A little bit at a time, he thought, and put his glass back down while his pallet recovered. 

Sherlock put his down as well. "Just how drunk are you planning to get tonight?" he asked, his face still lengthened from his own first try.

John chuckled, play-punching his arm as the film really started so as to keep him focused and on track. With a roll of his eyes and a crossing his arms over his red-knit chest, Sherlock fell into suitable silence for the first of their stories to be told.

They were both quite buzzed when they started exchanging medical facts on both live and dead tissue when the heroes on screen were engaged in scenes of high carnage. They were on their third glasses and second film when they really began to critique both the zombie line of attack and the human defensive strategies. They were both pissed when the third film was over and were too busy making their own zombie plan to bother with putting in the next one.

"We're dead until Analise is at least six," Sherlock said, leaning heavily on the opposite arm of the sofa, his long legs encroaching on John's lap as he stretched languidly over the three seated cushions like a liquid poured in a bath.

John shook his head. "You keep saying that. That's just _ridiculous_!"

"Hardly! Whoever carries her will be overburdened and she's not strong enough to run on her own at speeds which will permit safe escape." Sherlock pushed at John's thighs with his heel, John wrapping his hands around his feet to make him stop. He'd already managed to mostly squish him against the corner with his slowly spreading tactics of sofa acquisition. Sherlock continued to kneed his toes against him with or without the full range of motion to his soles. "If it's against slow zombies I can understand your point but the true raising of the dead is far less likely than a mutated virus or some genetically altered bacterial strain that can overwrite the basics of humanity and create the mutant 'Infected'."

John rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it. "So we don't run. Fighting is _always_ an option. We bunker down here and defend ourselves until either help comes or we win. If we got Mycroft to get me set with a stockpile of ammunition for the Browning, then we're pretty much set. We can live off your honey for as long as we need to which is actually the ideal food stuff for just this kind of thing because it doesn't require refrigeration should the zombies take out the power grid."

" _That's_ your big plan? Stay here, shoot everything and eat honey?" Sherlock shook his head, arms folding higher on his chest with indignity. "Why don't we just get a tank, then, so we can drive over their corpses and blow up hoards with a single round?"

"No one is going to give us a tank."

"I could get us a tank."

"Doesn't matter, you wouldn't have a clue how to drive one."

"Doesn't take away the fact that we would have a huge armored vehicle at our disposal to deposit Analise into should its only use be as a last-resort bunker." Sherlock kicked at him again with his sulk before letting his head roll back towards the window where dead vines hung without their leafy greenery. "Or, of course, I could try to genetically modify bees to recognize me as their Queen and thus attack in my defense." 

John scoffed and threw his arms up. "You know, I thought you were taking this seriously," he cried, disproportionately annoyed at the sudden inanity. Genetically modified bees in a zombie plan? They'd be the only meal on the block that came with a comedy act.

Sherlock scowled, pointing across the sofa at John with a flurry of graceless gestures. "You have a gun," he said. "I have a garden and several governments that owe me favors. I'm trying to take advantage of _all_ my resources."

"By gene—No. Oh, no, see, this is how it all starts!" John turned in his seat, letting Sherlock's feet go as his mind burst with his new thoughts, the most ingenious thoughts he'd ever had if anyone cared to ask him. "It's because of _you_! Your mutant bees sting some poor sod and you end up responsible for the zombie outbreak in the first place!"

Sherlock sat up slightly, his face scowling with a curious quirk to his left brow. "So you're saying this is all my fault now?"

"Could be."

"... So then I'd be able to command the zombies as though they were my mutant bees?"

John's brain nearly exploded. "Oh. My god," he said, sitting back with a flounce. He raised his hand in a soldier's salute. "Long live the Queen!" he cheered and hardly halfway through the words found himself face down in his own knees laughing while Sherlock echoed the sound in further recline. His ribs hurt and his face felt numb. All he could picture was Sherlock in his silly yellow hat, standing upon a useless tank surrounded by a zombie hoard all humming to the same tune as the honey bees. He gasped and choked on his own chuckle, coughing into his fist as he fought to find a way to speak over the roll of amusement that had claimed him. "Sherlock, I don't think I have _ever_ heard of a zombie plan that begins with _starting_ the zombie uprising so as to have dominion over the attacking hoard!"

"The best defense is a strong offense," the scientist remind him.

John nodded, sighing noisily as the laughter refused to die. "And what do we do with this new army?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, lips pursed in a long look of consideration. "I guess that really depends on how bored we get."

John fell over laughing once more, quite sure he might vomit if they continued on much longer. Sherlock's face was red with drink and merriment and John could only imagine what his own face looked like. It felt hot against his hands as he wiped tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm. He hadn't laughed this much in ages.

The menu for the DVD continued to roll through its short loop of sounds and music as they failed to select any additional viewings since the credits had rolled away and sent them back to the main hub. John looked down at the watch on his wrist to see how much more time they had before the New Year only to find three black numbers displaying themselves where there were supposed to be four. "Jesus, it's past one! We missed it," he said, floored as to how they'd managed to overshoot it but with a mostly empty wine glass sitting on the table in front of him as reminder.

Sherlock sighed as he continued to melt over the arm of the sofa. "Well, I haven't accidentally written the wrong date in the past hour. No harm done."

"We're supposed to toast, though," John reminded him, tipping the bottle's remnants into his own glass and finding not but a drop remaining. Sherlock waved his hand over the top of his own all the same to stop him.

"John, if I have one more sip of that gooseberry wine, I might slip into a coma."

"I told myself I'd toast."

Sherlock sighed, boneless. "We can have toast for breakfast," he promised as though it were a helpful compromise.

John scowled at Sherlock's rather failed attempt at further humor and nudged him. "Sherlock. Raise your glass at the very least," he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned with the effort but managed to get himself seated upright, fumbling fingers finding his empty glass and holding it aloft to the light of the television.

John smiled with a nod, the amber drop remaining in his own glass as he raised it in a wavering salute. "Here's to Mary," he said, clearing his throat when his voice threatened to break over far less silly words. "To the best wife a man could hope for and the kindest friend anyone could ever need. You are missed but never forgotten." He found Sherlock's glass and _clinked_ against it, letting the last bit of wine slide down to his tongue while Sherlock mimed and placed his back on the table. John shook his head and nudged his knee against his thigh. " _And_! And to Sherlock."

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, his head half cocked in curiosity though his glass remained set on the table. 

John raised his own all the same. "To my best friend for whom there are no words. Just.. immense gratitude, respect and... everything amazing in the world. May Britain never see the likes of your Zombee hoard," he said with a crooked smirk, and, lacking in further wine to share or a glass to knock against, he leaned in and pressed his lips to his in a quick and fleeting kiss. Sherlock's eyes were glassy and red from the wine but keen enough to follow him with their stare as he pulled away and sat straight. John smiled, no regret in his drunken state in the least for his first kiss of the New Year to be the same as his last of the old. "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, hardly even blinking. "Happy New Year, John."

John gave his thigh a pat and forced himself to stand, grabbing the empty glasses and a bottle to take to the kitchen. He walked three steps before falling into Sherlock's customary chair with a cackle, nearly dropping everything as he hugged them to his chest shaking with laughter. "Jesus, we are _pissed_ ," he howled, looking over at Sherlock who smirked at him but who's heavy eyes were drooping shut as he stretched out fully on the otherwise vacant sofa, settling comfortably in. John snorted. "Going to stay right there?"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed in the affirmative. "Suggest you do the same. You'll break your neck on the stairs and the baby gate is childproof."

And thus, effectively, drunk proof. John chuckled briefly and sighed, putting the glassware on the floor for safe keeping as he slouched down, feet on the table, embraced in the well-worn leather of a chair that was as much Sherlock as his coat and scarf. John looked across at him with a smile as he seemed to be already asleep with his eyes shut and cheeks rosy. John tried to press his foot to his leg to get his attention but missed and prodded the cushion instead. "Sherlock," he called, not bothering with a whisper.

"Sleeping."

"Liar." John tried to tap his leg again but settled for letting it rest against his calf, the proximity to Sherlock a comfort as the DVD menu colored him in red. John tapped him with his toes. "Sherlock, if I asked you out on a date, not now but... you know. If I did. _When_ I do. Sherlock, will you please say yes?"

Sherlock hummed as though thinking it over, rolling his leg against his touch, flesh to fabric but still connected all the same. "If it sounds like it'll be an agreeable evening," he said at last, his eyes still shut with sleep weighing on them.

John nodded, letting his head rest on the low back of the chair where his slouch kept him perfectly perched. "Okay. That's fair. Just, um... I want to give it a chance if you'll let me."

"I never asked for gold from a pauper. In your own time, John."

John wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, but the close had sounded like a yes. 

Sherlock rolled over on his side with his head pulled back in the sort of posture only the drunk and cats found comfortable. "Go to sleep,” he ordered, mouth held slack as he breathed in deep and let it go with one long last sigh.

John gave a committal grunt and fumbled with his heel on the table, giving the remote a good, percussive kick to leave the room finally covered in darkness with the exception of the twinkling starlight of the evergreen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [John, Analise and Lala](http://botacochina.tumblr.com/post/49041302228/john-analise-and-lala-for-nikoford-its-not-much) by the sweetheart [Botacochina](http://botacochina.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

They started dating in the late spring when there was finally enough to do that Sherlock felt no compulsion to travel north. John had asked earlier but Sherlock had declined on the basis of a double homicide and a generally booked itinerary. John persisted none the less. For that first date John got tickets to Tchaikovsky and a sitter for Analise as they met in London after Sherlock's last case of the season for a night of romantic engagement. They both fell asleep during the first half of the symphony, John drooling slightly on the arm of Sherlock's jacket, and left at intermission to get a Chinese.

Their dates since then had been to much greater success. They fertilized and mulched the front garden and mowed the grass along their property. They repainted the trim on Fair Hill Cottage and cut back the evergreens till the garden looked fresh and ready once more. They cleaned and sterilized mason jars and strained the honey from the combs. They took turns being Analise's pony or being the arm she swung from. And at the end of the day they sat on the back patio and talked or played cards until one last good night kiss. The purpose of dating had always been to make one's partner feel special and appreciated. For them, nothing said it better than time spent on the things that mattered to each other. Symphonies and fancy restaurants were nice in thought and a pleasant escape from the stresses of life. But what had they to escape from?

Laying out on the blanket under the big umbrella, John relaxed in the shade with his ankles crossed and arms pillowing his head. He'd finished the edging long before Sherlock's own simple task of watering, though Sherlock's helper probably had carried more than her fair share of the blame. From the blanket John had a perfect view of Sherlock and Analise, him in his yellow hat and Analise in one of white with a big yellow sunflower on the side. Though Sherlock still did the gardening in his pressed trousers and button down, Analise had her own pair of purple overalls with enough pockets to bring inside entire troves of treasures from rocks to bugs and buds picked too soon. Watching Sherlock and Analise interact was a secret treat John never grew tired of viewing. She adored him and idolized him, never seeming to be too worried about the lack of hugs or kisses when he was so often kneeling beside her with all of his time and knowledge shared with her. Sometimes he stroked her hair. Most of the time he gave her head a few gentle pats. She was his Little Bee and no vacancy of words or physical expression could ever cast so much as a shadow over the vibrancy of their bond. 

Even if Sherlock would not approve, what was best for Analise still featured prominently in John's mind when thinking of his future, even in concerns of love. He could not ask for a better partner to raise his daughter with than the man with his hand overlapping Analise's own as he demonstrated how to water the plants, knees soaking through from the runoff in the grass. They'd been partners since the day they'd met, working with each other's faults to be a better team than they were individuals. It made sense that it should come to this. They'd come full circle back to each other through harder times than John thought they would. And for all the nights of sleeplessness that had been endured before, John wouldn't change a thing to be laying there now, watching them, knowing perfection existed.

"Daddy!" 

John smiled as Analise ran towards him with one dirty hand held out in front, fingers closed around something as she slowed down and kneeled beside him.

"Daddy, look!" she commanded, uncurling her grip to show a long wriggling worm dancing on her palm.

John peered at it with his brows raised high, nodding slowly as he sat up on his elbows. "That sure is a big one. Are you going to eat it or is it for me?"

Analise giggled, pulling the worm away. "No, Daddy! Don't eat worms!"

"Are you sure?" John tried to get another peak at it. "Looks pretty tasty to me."

She giggled again, shaking her head and wrinkling her nose as she stood to keep the worm safe. "You silly, Daddy," she said before running back to the muddy soil to put the worm away. 

Sherlock had already rolled the hose back up and was pacing towards the umbrella with large wet patches on the legs of his trousers. He sat down on the blanket, hands wiped off on his thighs. 

"I should have made lunch," John said, leaning up to brush a leaf from Sherlock's back. His shoulders were warm from the sun and far too tempting not to linger on long after the debris had been removed. 

Sherlock took his hat off and set it down beside him, fluffing his flattened curls with the long rake of his fingers through them. "Need to go to the shops anyway. We can pick something up while we're out. Your treat," he added, looking over his shoulder at him with a smirk. 

John flicked his nose but said nothing to the contrary. "Better get the lot of us cleaned up, then. At least a change of clothes, though Analise..." John looked back to the muddy soil just in time to watch his daughter slip a few mysterious handfuls of something into her pockets. He pursed his lips. "Yeah, she's getting a bath."

Sherlock chuckled, rolling his head back as he ended with a sigh and sank lower on his elbows till he was laying down beside him. "It can wait."

"Not that hungry, hm?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed, a sweet smelling breeze flirting over them as it blew through the trees and flowers. John happened to agree. He checked one last time to see that Analise was still happily digging through the mud then flattened himself to the blanket, letting his hand stray till his fingers laid gently over the back of Sherlock's. There was nothing but the umbrella to see above but with his eyes closed he could see the headlands again with the waving grass and wildflowers off the channel's white rock faces.

John was always going to love Mary. She was an important part of his life. But Sherlock, the world's most brilliant madman, was a part of his soul. He'd be worse than lost without him—he wouldn't even be himself. He was in love with him. He wanted him. Now and forever. Or for as long as he'd have him.

Straight ahead, running fast, one last big jump and then...

And in the moment between earth and sky, that perpetual state of never knowing, of trust and faith and breathlessness, there would always be his Sherlock and his everlasting love for him.


	11. Epilogue

"What do you think of marriage?" John asked, mug of coffee between his hands as they watched the sun set under another lavender dusk. The spray of clouds were like baby's breath in a bouquet of autumn flowers tied in the golden ribbon of a burnt horizon. Everything looked to be on fire in the sun's final cast of color. Summer was extraordinarily beautiful at Fair Hill Cottage but even more so with the ebb and flow of days. John liked their long summer evenings, the way the sun seemed to wait for them both to finish with their daily tasks before rolling down in a gentle arc that drew the curtain of night down around them in a wondrous spectacle of chromatic resplendence made all the better with company.

Sherlock stirred in more sugar to his coffee, spoon ringing against the ceramic in a reoccurring _tink_. He shrugged his square shoulders, lips pursed after another sip to test the sweetness of his concoction. It seemed to pass the test. He put the spoon bowl-side down, an errant curl bouncing against his cheek despite the ring around his head where the hat brim had kept it all in check. They'd been happy hermits far too long. He needed a trim. 

John tucked it back for him, rolling it into a less wayward strand with his finger. "Never thought about it?"

"Not exactly." Sherlock sat back in his seat, pressing his hair back with both palms despite John's efforts to aid. Residual sweat kept it in place for only a moment before it sprung back towards his face in an oddly shaped disturbance. "Not in the sense you're probably inquiring anyway," he said. "Marriage is practical, not romantic. It's a legal partnership, a universally recognized institution of financial and social merger. It is a requirement for certain government regulated services but as a means of symbolic union between lovers it is nothing but sentimental nonsense. Weddings themselves are a display of poor fiscal sense and copious consumption and if a couple needs a legal merger to feel committed then—well, never-mind, the divorce rate speaks well enough of that."

John nodded, rotating his old wedding ring around his finger as had become habit, thumb tucked in against his palm. "People got married before governments got involved."

"Back in the time when men bought their wives or families sold off their daughters with dowries?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, the sanctity of that glorious construct that is marriage. You know why it's only in recent history that it's been an issue that men might fancy men and women other women? Because it used to be you only had to worry about owning the thing you intended to breed with. A year is a long time to wait to sow one's own seed. Marriage has never been about love, it's simply a sign of ownership into which some lovers find themselves cast alongside other breeders in a jealous campaign of sole rights and privileges." 

John pursed his lips, caught somewhere between a scowl and a frown with a hint of grudging agreement. "This isn't really how I thought this conversation would go," he admitted, setting his mug down with the rhythmic patter of his fingers against the warm surface.

Sherlock arched his left brow curiously. "You're not _asking_ , are you?" He sounded almost insulted by the idea though his face was strict and inexpressive save for the quirked brow.

"If you have to ask, I can promise you I'm not. When I do ask—"

"' _When_ '?"

John raised a finger in warning, urging him to listen first and speak after. "When I do ask," he repeated, his voice somewhat softer with its weight, "I assure you there will be no doubt as to my intention."

Sherlock's nearly affronted expression melted back into a blank canvas, his posture rigid and awkwardly stressed to further betray his uncomfortable nature. His eyes remained locked on John. "You intend to marry me."

"I intend to ask. That's about as far ahead as I can reasonably plan." John smiled with good humor, giving Sherlock's knee a gentle pat under the table before seizing his own mug again and sighing into the steaming brew. "I don't want to own you and god help the man or woman who tries. I don't need legal documents to prove that we're an 'us' or feel like that means more somehow because there's paperwork and fees that's gone into it. Even if you say ' _no_ ' it wouldn't mean an end to anything. I'm not thinking that there's somehow more we're missing because you're my boyfriend and not my husband. It's just that those government regulated things are sort of necessary sometimes. And I don't want someone telling me you're not included when they say ' _family_ '."

Sherlock nodded slowly, having melted into his own skin once more so his bones no longer stacked neatly but allowed him to slouch just slightly in his seat with far more comfort granted. He was surprisingly sensitive to the subject despite his rather strong opinions. Marriage and Sherlock weren't really compatible in a lot of ways, history and tradition among them, but there was a time when John would have said the same about Sherlock and any relationship. The younger man sipped his coffee, eyes cast to the horizon with his pale face reflecting the warmth of the amber light. "Adopting Analise would be nice. Requires a lot less bullying of people hiding behind the excuse of just doing their jobs," he said, underlying sentiment with passing grievance. 

"Yeah, definitely." John smiled. Of course, it couldn't be a cool smile that made his face look distantly appreciative. No, it was the goof-ball smile that never failed to betray every bit of joy little things sometimes brought him. It was the smile that made his eyes much more wrinkly and added ten years to his face as every laugh-line deepened and crinkled in towards his nose. He'd rather hoped Sherlock would want to. All of it. Everything. He considered it social instruction which made it matter even when daily they lived without any feelings of without. He cleared his throat to clear his lips of the ridiculous expression, the taut pull of pleasure easing from his cheeks. Not that Sherlock hadn't seen, his own mature grin pulled into place with smugness. He was ageless with a frown but perfection with a smile. John sank his mouth into his warm brew to hide the embarrassed vestiges of mirth, in no small way pleased the dusk could be blamed for any hint of rosiness on his face.

Sherlock's smugness only grew. He let his foot rest against John's under the table, his brown loafer cousin to John's bare foot. "Alright," he said, managing a somber tone even with his lips gently curled.

John shook his head, hand to Sherlock's forearm for reassurance. "No, not 'alright'. I'm not asking yet," he corrected.

"Then I'm asking you."

"Don't do that. I'm going to have to say no on principle."

Sherlock's nose scrunched in irritation. "On _what_ principle? Why does it have to be _you_ who asks?"

"Because you deserve me on my knees before your feet, _begging_ you to marry me with no less than three month's wages invested in the plea." 

Sherlock had no immediate reply to that. John gave his arm a squeeze, letting his thumb stroke gently over the fine hair along his forearm. There was no small pleasure in making Sherlock's brain grind to a halt and stall his spitfire lips short of a snappy retort. John had every intention of being as traditional as possible in this ritual if in no other. He'd gotten down on one knee to Mary at a Christmas party in front of her friends and several of his own. It hadn't been a big diamond but it had been a real one. It wasn't just a matter of living up to a woman's childhood fantasies of proposal and marriage, doing what she expected just to make her happy. It was part of it, he wouldn't lie about that, but she was worth it. She was worth him prostrating himself at her feet, putting it off and saving for what felt like forever just to show in one instant what she meant to him in a tactile expression of emotional connection. If it was worth doing for the love of his life, if was worth repeating for the man who was the completion of his existence. Sherlock deserved no less—deserved much more, in fact. They could shun traditions and pointless spectacle all the other days of the year. Much as time made his knees ache, John would fall to at least one before Sherlock in testament. 

Sherlock let out a short breath through his nose, tongue sliding along his lips as he licked them in nervous admission. "No rings," he said at last, the rest of his consent implied. "I haven't the tolerance for something pointlessly ornamental."

"I'll buy you a wedding ring but you don't have to wear it. It can stay in the box in the back of the sock drawer for all I care. But seeing as I am a sentimental idiot, it wouldn't feel right not to have bought you one." He felt his thumb toy with his own ring again, spinning it comfortably in its special grove seemingly permanently indented into his hand. It hadn't taken long to adjust to. He couldn't imagine his finger without it. Even though it was his dominant hand, the absence of the metal band made it feel weak. He sometimes wondered what Sherlock could deduce about his relationship with the ring going only on the comforting habits he'd picked up along the years. He never bothered asking. 

"And if I were to buy you one?" Sherlock questioned, nodding towards the rotating band of gold.

John stopped, looking at it for only a moment before offering up with not the least hesitation a shrug and dismissive quirk of his lips. "Then I'll have the perfect box to store my old one in for the back of my own sock drawer," he said.

Sherlock's mild surprise was far from hidden, eyes drawing back wider under raised brows with a brilliance akin to the creeping starlight. He folded his features into a more stoic display and nodded acutely. "Platinum," he said and then drank in the quiet of awkward pre-silence.

"Only the best." John agreed, and drank deeply of the last of his own mug. He hummed on the swallow as another thought occurred to him, putting himself in queue to speak as he waited for the coffee to settle in his gut. He pursed his lips to swallow a cough as well as compulsion got the better of his basic drinking technique. "Also? Public signing and reception. I know what you're thinking but just imagine it: Mycroft and my mother in the same room; two well-intentioned busy bodies going head-to-head while trying to keep to all social norms and formalities."

Sherlock chuckled warmly, his smile splitting his face as he shook his head. "You'll have me agreeing to an orchestral accompaniment and full secular service before you've even deemed it appropriate to propose."

"I'll fight only for an announcement in the major papers. The rest can be as simple or as garish as you like."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his smile not in the least diminished even as he managed to close his lips over his teeth. "Why the sudden interest in marriage? You've never mentioned it before."

John frowned solemnly, propping his chin on his fist. "Actually, I had been thinking about how Analise married that boy from the park. But now that you've equated marriage to reproductive slavery I'm having a hard time finding it as cute as I did before." He looked over at Sherlock, lips pursed into a pout to try and keep them pinned closed.

One look. One look and he was sputtering with laughter, Sherlock adding to the sound with his head rolled back towards the moon with the last of the sunlight burning bright like a candle at the end of its wick. John leant hard against the arm of his chair, Sherlock meeting him halfway for a kiss that buzzed with jovial humming. 

"I'm sure it's different for four year olds," Sherlock offered in comfort as John followed up with a second kiss.

"It's different for a lot of people," and he took his hand, giving it a squeeze under the table with the last burst of twilight.


End file.
